Think of me

Will anyone think of me when I am gone?
Will they remember my laugh and sense of fun?
Or will they remember what I've become,
a sickly, grumpy, wizened, old, nun.

Will anyone speak of me when I am dead?
Will I live on inside all their heads?
Or will I just be a name that is fed
onto a dry family tree, instead?

Will anyone mention seeing my ghost?
Can I contrive to be the one they see most?
Will I have to elbow my way through the legions
of ancestors, all eager to be the one mentioned?

Where is my cloud? Pass me my harp,
I'll have to get used to this new kind of lark.
But, oh dear, what's this? The halo don't fit,
It's be a ghost; or into the Pit!