Chiselled with garish italic typefaces and moribund messages they expose the semi-iliterate
sentimental language not of the interred, but of the plastic rose romanticism and soup-from-a-can philosophy of the Post War generation they leave behind.

A generation who thought hostess trolleys were a good idea.

It's this life's resting place for a generation who watched the World blow itself to
pieces, introduce plastic cutlery, let the people who invented Thalidomide get off
scot free, and ultimately fall on its own local sword....

It's a Barrat housing estate for the dearly departed....
An easily maintained, des-res lump of stone with its very own mattress of damp grass. One down payment and nothing more to pay until the Earth gets swallowed by an expanding sun.