The grave was so full [of other burila], that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon. 'Oliver Twist', Charlie Dickens.

Flies buzz around the ground, again, that clanging sound:
"Bring out your dead. Or catch it instead."
Over his belly, he scoffed, ate, drank. Thanked God he had money in the bank.
That was more than most. Especially yon dear-departed ghost.
Then his living-dying nightmare began. 
Over and over this putrid belly rumbled, black battalions of wasps, flies tumbled.
One settled on yon alderman's eyes.
His guts flowed like a sewer, thick, tarry liquid.
Some living rags of a lad guffawed at that : "Fat twat. He's got the clap!"
Still, his food went down and up went smell. Rotting, he began to swell.
T'alderman, t'boss, sprang up, sparkling teeth, belly swollen, lost.
 With a vague breath he mumbled: "I couldn't give a toss at some other fucker's  loss.
"He lived a full life and now he's gone." 
Yon alderman lived by multiplying money. Funny money.
His world made strange music: rumbles and farts whilst guzzling tarts.
In the loo mirrors caught him in a winnowing, rhythmic movement, as blood splashed through his brain.
He'd never be the same. Shaking and turning in his suit, the stroke finally took root. 
Shapes faded from his purview, he had to stew in his own juice as his bowels let loose.
A slow realisation of death splashed on a forgotten canvas. O!  the artist always completes his work
Left behind, near the graves a worried wife. His will. Her life. 
Watching for the moment to take back all the years of misery.
What a relief! From the soon-to-be skeleton Money jingled. The purse she had dropped. Now full.
The same  horrible infection, greedy, greedy, needy-needy-nation.
She said: "Star of my eyes, sun of my nature, You, my angel and my passion!"
Words.Nothing but words. The alderman's dead. Pass on his loot!
O! She was O! queen of graces. Money. Property a-plenty. After the last sacraments, When he goes finally under the fat flowers.
"Old mouldy bones! Who will now kiss the blubber of my decomposing lover?"