Deathstyle

After you've been buried in your clothes,
You'll soon be nothing but decomposing adipose,
In a box of wood, six feet under,
Having your flesh rent asunder,
By worms and beetles, the bones stripped bare,
They might leave traces of your hair.
But above the surface, little remains,
A headstone, on it written some short refrains.
It doesn't matter how you lived,
Your riches, or what you believed,
What you ate, or whether you went the extra mile,
Your lifestyle is not your deathstyle.