Sci Fi Saturday: Come Post the Compost

The fine print on his air license was clear:
'Twas based upon consumption, not on time.
But Pepper thought he'd paid up for a year,
And kept on filibustering. The climb
In readings on his meter grew quite steep
When he protested policy on who
Could marry on the station. In his sleep
He missed the cut-off, woke up, lips turned blue
And screamed, thus wasting oxygen. No one
Seemed much concerned. His bluster had not made
Him popular. "Shoot him into the sun,"
A wag suggested, but his corpse was laid
At last in a symbolic heap of stuff
Like what he'd spewed life-long. 'Twas ripe enough...