That there poem don't rhyme!

“What will become of my remains?”
“That depends. What were you in life?”
“I killed someone once, so I guess that makes me a murderer.”
“Were you punished?”
“Not yet, as it turns out, he was a god.”
“Do you feel remorse?”
“At first I did, and then I rejoiced in his death, we all did. We took his place. What will become of my remains?”
“Are you worried about them?”
“No, just curious. However, I would rather that they not be fed to dogs.”
“Are you sure you felt remorse?”
“I did, though the others appeared to revel in his demise.”
“There’s a lot to be said for remorse. It can go a long way, in the right company.”
“Once I saw a robin, at least he told me he was a robin; he was trained as a robin and carried a paper to prove it. Of course the paper was immediately suspect, as the bird was all black, and even though it clearly stated him to be a robin, when I asked him to sing, he could not. I wish I had a paper, something to validate me, prove that I was here. Some cultures burn them.”
“Papers?”
“No, remains. Will you be burning mine?”
“I think you’re stalling.”
“Hand me the razor.”