An Overcrowded Graveyard Poem by Mark Heathcote

Be careful. Be careful, I say.
When I do get old,
I don't want to cling to life like a barnacle.
Or resemble some desperate, encumbered hermit crab.
When I get old, I don't want to take my pension.
And live in a sardine can by the seashore.

Be careful. Be careful, I say.
I don't want you or me to be ripped off buying some small
Overpriced damp caravan in an overcrowded graveyard.
Paying ever-increasing ground rates
To rats who only want to bleed you and me dry,
And for what?

Be careful. Be careful, I say.
It's not as though living on some Cornish
Or the Welsh coastline is moving to sunnier climes.
Let's be honest: they fleece you for a gas bottle.
They fleece you for any added membership facilities.
Be careful. Be careful, I say.

That's their way of saying thanks. That's where they're at.
They fleece you for breathing, truth be known.
And as soon as you struggle with any payments
They'll hang up the phone and leave you out in the cold.
Hang you out to dry I am informatively told
And go ferreting like a Jack Russell Terrier dog
For another old pension-laden juicy bone.