Part 45 (2/2)

Living or dead, he's equally Satanic-- His noise a terror and his smell a panic.

When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast And swears that Time's forever past, Days, weeks, months, years all one at last, Then Asa Fiske, laid here, distressed, Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast: There'll be no rate of interest!

Step lightly, stranger: here Jerome B. c.o.x Is for the second time in a bad box.

He killed a man--the labor party rose And showed him by its love how killing goes.

When Vrooman here lay down to sleep, The other dead awoke to weep.

”Since he no longer lives,” they said ”Small honor comes of being dead.”

Here Porter Ashe is laid to rest Green grows the gra.s.s upon his breast.

This patron of the turf, I vow, Ne'er served it half so well as now.

Like a cold fish escaping from its tank, Hence fled the soul of Joe Russel, crank.

He cried: ”Cold water!” roaring like a beast.

'Twas thrown upon him and the music ceased.

Here Estee rests. He shook a basket, When, like a jewel from its casket, Fell Felton out. Said Estee, shouting With mirth; ”I've given you an outing.”

Then told him to go back. He wouldn't.

Then tried to _put_ him back. He couldn't.

So Estee died (his blood congealing In Felton's growing shadow) squealing.

Mourn here for one Bruner, called Elwood.

He doesn't--he never did--smell good To noses of critics and scholars.

If now he'd an office to sell could He sell it? O, no--where (in h.e.l.l) could He find a cool four hundred dollars?

Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd That he should go to meet his G.o.d.

He looked, until his eyes grew dim, For G.o.d to hasten to meet him.

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