Urbem Mortis

I like how the sanitary graveyard, Hides the fertile rot beneath; Above though it be pleasant, quiet- What is that strange brown peat? There beautiful flowers bloom aground, Though in truth, they're mostly plastic; And the odd weeds, upon the mound- They're growing something drastic? Some people come to see the graves, Can't find their way around; If they've no time to search, the knaves Should not profane hallowed ground. I love the tombstones standing still, As though waiting for forever; And how the lawns are kept so green- But no, if you please- don't till. I like it till the sun goes down, And then I like some other place; It's better not to hang around; Some of them might know my face.