Oh Spike, you can’t be buried in Rye
I believe your somewhere in the sky.
Not in the ground in Sussex by the sea,
In London, with great poets you should be.
King of the absurd, master of mirth,
A jester a genius, a creator of zany verse.
Are you telling stories to children and angels?
Your face alight with wonderment,
Your blue eyes dancing with merriment.
You are Peter Pan to those who have died
And for those who are still alive
And for those yet to arrive.
Your face is full of fun
You are the beloved one.
Through out the world, where there is light,
Children still read your stories with delight.
Why aren’t you resting in Westminster Abby?
With the inscription you requested for all to see?
‘I told you I was ill.’
In poet’s corner you should be
And not by the sea.
You must rest in the old London Abby
On the bank of the ancient river.
A fitting place for you, who made millions laugh.
Giving so much pleasure, in no short measure.
How I wish I were The Queen, I would give an immediate decree.