Promptless, Titleless Poem - help needed

Altho the TFE bus is out of order, I've gotten into the habit of putting up a new poem here every Monday, and good habits are hard to shake. This week it's a poem written in a coffee shop on saturday while waiting for the brake light on my car to be fixed (apparently they're important to have in running order when driving to Letterkenny in October).
Anyway - without further ado -

If the Electric Chair was run by Ryanair,
you'd have to die standing,
having queued for hours -
with jingly music roaring in your ears
and leery hen/stag parties drinking 6am beers
and trumpets if you die on time
before other trumpets sound.
You'd be strapped in tight,
(with no leg room)
- there'd be ads for Sprite
on the inside of your death hood
- harsh cheery announcements dispelling any chance of sleep,
and I fear your last meal wouldn't be that good
and it wouldn't be that cheap.

Any help with naming this one would be appreciated.