I would have to have a transcription of Monty Python's Parrot Sketch.
Here lies John Harold Melick.
He is no more. He has ceased to be. He's expired and gone to meet his maker. He's a stiff. Bereft of life. He rests in peace. He's shuffled off this mortal coil. He's run down the curtain and joined the choir invisible. This....is....an ex-man!
"He's gone, nothing can bring him back, not even voodoo or experimental surgery. He was like a toilet paper - always usefule."
Or something like that. But in fact it won't be me who'd be deciding the contents of my epitaph. I bet you can't write down a nice poem in the miliseconds between you get hit by a truck and the moment you look at your brains falling down on the road. :Oo: