In the event of one's demise
One must hope that someone wise
Will have sufficient nous
The news for to diffuse
And inform the Mudcat clan
That they've lost another man
Who did nothing but attempt
Casual ignorance to pre-empt
By supplying words and meanings
To whatever people's leanings
Caused them aye to go and seek
All of seven days a week
And tried not to keep them long
Circumnavigating songs
Which have roamed the whole world over
Like the fabled Irish Rover.
Though Death gives us no choice
We can hope, like Mister Joyce,
That the Workhouse may be "lán"
And the river may run on
Past swerve of shore…