Here lies a man who never complained
A happy life he never gained
His last words before he died
And went to cross the great divide
Were: Oh, Lord, there’s such a chill
Can someone send a happy pill?
Or perhaps better:
Here lies a man of letters
A noble man of Nordic birth
Alas, his hands were bound in fetters
Barring him from knowing mirth
Once he wrote with dash and wit
Now he’s buried in a pit
Come on, worms, take your fill,
Taste some flesh, if you will
Try an eye
Or a thigh
He’s croaked his last, have a thrill
But if I have thirty years left you cannot take it for granted that I will be the same. So perhaps something like this?
From all of us to you, dear God
Now you have him beneath the sod,
Karl Ove Knausgaard is finally dead