"When all is said and done
When our wicks all burn out
When our stories are outrun
By "The End", and we punch out

"What remains with the dust
That we once came from
Are our memories and just
The smile they put on some

"Nothing else matters once we're
Interred", you've been taught,
Well let me tell you, you're
Gravely mistaken in this thought.

For up in the skies there's a little competition-
Though I may be rebuked for this admission-
Everyone's in on it, it's quite entertaining
There's bets on favourites for champion reigning

So many categories, new ones everyday
The rules are a mess but the game's here to stay.
For death itself may be dark and grey
But what accompanies your firing neurons' decay..

..Is a fun writing contest! Epitaphs and last words
Or something you jot down right when you enter
All of it's eligible, and at least two thirds
Of all entries are written once at the center.

People write how they feel or how
They want to be remembered
The essence of their lives somehow
Brushed up or dismembered

In pithy little sayings, oh you humans are funny
There's some good ones I've seen, some classic
Some terrible clichés, some quite on the money
Some that deserve hell, though that'd be drastic

Lucky for you, there is no hell. So alas
"Live, Laugh, Love", "Nothing ever lasts"
And all of the other common platitudes
Cross my desk in unbounded magnitudes

Because I'm The Judge, and I have been for ages,
With my powers, each week I judge hundreds of pages
But today's my once-in-a-century leave
And though discussing work is my pet peeve

I thought I'd share some of the funny stuff
Since you're asking me so politely
Since you've already heard enough
And sworn that you won't write it.

There’s folks who refuse to believe it’s happening:
“Please take me back, this is a clerical mistake.”
“It’s all in my head!” : standard scientific rambling,
“I’m hallucinating before I go, never again to wake.”

Married men claim they can still hear
Their wives whining from way up here
And the women swear that by then their spouses
Either starved to death or burned down their houses

All of them crammed in a long hall with few fans
Forced to be there, ‘cause they have no other plans
Do what they can, poor things, desperately write
To their Gods, their saints, explaining their plight

They quite misunderstand, they beg for salvation.
Talk of the good they’ve done; oh how they’ve prayed
Write themselves into heaven and out of damnation
As if an omnipotent being could thusly be swayed

Lucky for me, there is no heaven. For alas,
Good and bad are relative in this universe
It’s too hard to judge who’ll fail and who’ll pass
What I can judge, though, is a good verse

Oh, I love those who rhyme their name
With their cause of death or claim to fame
Like old man Rick: “I told you I was sick”
Or Fred whose head was hit by a brick

Teachers and students, priests and businessmen
All end up here, hunched over paper with pen
Then onto where they’ll stay, for the rest of all days
To be remembered, most of all, for turn of phrase.