Here lies Adrian Albert Moll, aged 14, 5 months and 3 days. A talented young poet, prematurely killed by a terrible bout of tonsillitis horribis. God rest his soul. If you'd lived, we could have been happy, running a refuge in Milton Keynes. But when you died, I had to move on, I needed to forget you so. And Dora, I adore you, and Nigel you were there to pull me through. We married, then we gullied, and had lots of babies, but none with spots. If you'd lived, our beautiful child, you might have brought us together again. But when you died, there wasn't much point, I hate you, you cheater, you ruined my life. We turned to drugs, we turned to crack, I turned to pills, I turned to smack. And it was rough, and it was tough, but who was there to bring me back? Pauline, marry me, I can't leave without you. Oh, and the next one dead with me, we'll be like a new family. I love you. Really, really, really love you. Ah, ah, ah. If you'd lived, I'd still be a bully, kicking your goolies on Friday night. But when you died, I stole your diary, I rewrote the tap, and put in a rap. Now me and Elton John, we're gonna write a song, it's gonna go boom, boom, boom. He's a real big fan, he's a really nice man, there's gonna be a massive tune. And all of the world will be lining up to see such a handsome, clever, super famous, intellectual man. Like me. If you'd lived very long, nothing would change, it'd still be strange. But when you died, our eternal bleeding, we started grieving for you. My angel, my child. Grandma? No. God? Come join me in heaven. Heaven? I can't. Oh God, now's not the time for me to die. There are people here who need me, and I haven't said goodbye. Please God, don't let my body rot away. I'm a healthy little boffin, I don't even like the coffee. We must return to death. We must return to death.