by Nick Gisburne
He promised he would scatter her remains
These gardens were the ones she loved the best
She passed in peace, beyond her mortal pains
Her soul, her spirit, finally at rest
Permission is a process, he is told
A simple permit, nothing too severe
A little kindness, shown to one so old
His gratitude is tender, and sincere
Returning on a Sunday, clear and bright
Unwrapping what remains of her, as planned
Assorted rotting body parts take flight
He launches them - an arm, a foot, a hand
The screaming public, splashed with scarlet rain
Restrain him, weeping, talking to her brain
