My Epitaph
Oh, praise me now if you would please
My soul with soothing flatteries.
Praise with my living clay agrees.
'Tis sweet, I vow.
Give me kind words while I can feel
The modest blushes gently steal,
What time my virtues you reveal.
Oh, praise me now!
For, when the vital spark has fled,
No matter what kind words are said,
I'll simply go on being dead
And take no heed.
Or if, perchance, beneath the clay,
I hear some kindly critic say,
'He was a boshter'in his day!'
'Twere hard indeed.
'Twere bitter hard to be confined,
Gagged by grim Death, while fellows kind
Call my good qualities to mind,
And softly sigh.
I vow I'd writhe within my bier,
And strive to croak at least, 'Hear, hear!'
For I have ever prized that dear
Right to reply.
And, when at last I meet my doom
And moulder in the chilly tomb,
Gaunt Death might play within the gloom
Who knows what pranks.
My very skeleton would squirm
To hear, on my behalf, some worm
Or some unlettered grave-yard germ
Returning thanks.
Then, if you're keen on praising me,
I'd rather be alive to see
And hear and feel the flattery,
And know 'tis true.
And when I rise to make reply
I fain would droop a modest eye
And by my halting, speech imply
It is my due.
I do not want a monument.
Why should good money so be spent?
Nay, put it out at ten per cent.,
And when you save
Enough to purchase goodly fare,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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