March of the A-Boards

To let: satisfying geometry, dressed in a coat of restful green
But rotten at the base and in need of sanctification.
Keep calm and have a beauty treatment.
Who knows? You might never again be recognised.
But they will know you by your national insurance number
Eventually to be tattooed on all new born children;
A ritual to replace those fuddy-duddy ceremonies
Which we do not understand and have turned our backs on.
All suffering is relative, Papillon knew this.
Two years of solitary with a haircut every other month.
Pray for the dead who lie here.
They are tormented by the smell of fish and chips.
You could send flowers. Or leave a tin of Special Brew.