AN OBITUARIANDeath-poet Pickering sat at his desk,Wrapped in appropriate gloom;His posture was pensive and picturesque,Like a raven charming a tomb.Enter a party a-drinking the cupOf sorrow—and likewise of woe:"Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up,All wrote in the key of O."For the angels has called my old woman henceFrom the strife (where she fit mighty free).It's a nickel a line? Cond—n the expense!For wealth is now little to me."The Bard of Mortality looked him throughIn the piercingest sort of a way:"It is much to me though it's little to you—I'vetakena wife to-day."So he twisted the tail of his mental cowAnd made her give down her flow.The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow—There was reams and reamses of woe.The widower man which had buried his wifeGrew lily-like round each gill,For she turned in her grave and came back to life—Then he cruel ignored the bill!Then Sorrow she opened her gates a-wide,As likewise did also Woe,And the death-poet's song, as is heard inside,Is sang in the key of O.
Death-poet Pickering sat at his desk,Wrapped in appropriate gloom;His posture was pensive and picturesque,Like a raven charming a tomb.Enter a party a-drinking the cupOf sorrow—and likewise of woe:"Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up,All wrote in the key of O."For the angels has called my old woman henceFrom the strife (where she fit mighty free).It's a nickel a line? Cond—n the expense!For wealth is now little to me."The Bard of Mortality looked him throughIn the piercingest sort of a way:"It is much to me though it's little to you—I'vetakena wife to-day."So he twisted the tail of his mental cowAnd made her give down her flow.The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow—There was reams and reamses of woe.The widower man which had buried his wifeGrew lily-like round each gill,For she turned in her grave and came back to life—Then he cruel ignored the bill!Then Sorrow she opened her gates a-wide,As likewise did also Woe,And the death-poet's song, as is heard inside,Is sang in the key of O.