Lying spying what men say of dead men, What men say of me -- I can't remember anything. Why can't I remember What alive I knew of death I dead know nothing of? "John was a man of trouble, Suffered life like a dear disease, Cowered before cures that might be death --" (Hush, death is the word!) "Love was a light headache, Just the right headache for his condition --" (Oh love, love, love, love. . . . . .) "God He refused as antitoxin and medicinal, Poor John, John, John, John, John, . . . . . . Said the parson as he perched On the sharp left discomfort Of John Jacob's tombstone -- John, John, John, John, John. Cobbler on the right Counted out the memory Of the nails of John's soles. Mercer in the middle Remembered the measure Of John's extravagant shroud. But no further the parson the cobler the mercer Lying spying In the graveyard Where night fell deeper darker, Dead men mumbled, might be mumbling, Something secret about life. Lying spying John and John and, Parson, cobbler, mercer, parson, Owls and carrion crows and ghouls And little larks and daylight fools. Damned dishonorable honorables That won't be spying on yourselves, Will you never never, never, Get up, get up, And find yourselves and all the selves, All together, all together, Not a thing to tell each other. |