There's this famous one by W.H. Auden:

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling in the sky the message: “He is dead!”

It's on the gravestone of someone I knew, the one-time landlord of the Bush Inn at Morwenstow, near Bude, a bloke called Jim. He was a bit of a miserable old bugger. We went up there one fine summer's evening for some pub grub. It's about a 25-minute drive from our house. When we got there he was sitting outside having a smoke. He told us that we couldn't have anything there because he couldn't be bothered to open up that night. We had to call at the chippy on the way home instead. I heard later that his refusal to open was a not-infrequent occurrence. After he died his long-time partner, Beryl, took over the pub. If anything she was even more miserable, though, to be fair, she was a bit disabled and shouldn't really have been doing it. If you asked for a pint of Guinness she put on a face like thunder as it meant her walking five yards to the other end of the bar, up two steps, then back down again. You felt guilty asking. It must have been she who arranged that gravestone. She never referred to him in any other way than "my partner Jim." That headstone never fails to amuse us. Such a joyless verse, but somehow so apt...