Convenient to this sacred spot
Lies Sammy, who applied it, hot.
'Tis hard--so much alike they smell--
One's grave from t'other's grave to tell,
But when his tomb the Deacon's burst
(Of two he'll always be the first)
He'll see by studying the stones
That he's obtained his proper bones,
Then, seeking Sammy's vault, unlock it,
And put that person in his pocket.
* * * * *
Beneath this stone O'Donnell's tongue's at rest--
Our noses by his spirit still addressed.
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. Cox
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.
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