When I Die, Don’t Tweet Me.

When I die,
I don’t want to be famous,
Too many people,
may then bestow greatness,

On my stiff corpse,
laid, coffin-graced;
Too late for me,
finally-erased:

I don’t want my glasses
perched on a wreath,
Nor outward pouring
of hysterical grief:

I would rather die loved,
by people I knew,
Than adored-dead
In an on-line spew:

Give me a tweet,
Like me, and friend me,
I would rather live now,
Knowing my enemies;

Don’t leave it too late,
When I’m boxed, without choice,
Love me today,
Whilst I still have my voice.

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