Quick, get him into his grave, he was a gambler and a waster, indifferent to pain in others, forty years of it, his wife made ill of it, his children blighted, lives a jumble and a toss. He lived to see one die of it. Rich, brown loam wasted on his coffin. What could grow from it? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE RHINOCEROS by HILAIRE BELLOC ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE A POEM AGAINST THE WAR IN VIETNAM by HAYDEN CARRUTH DESIRE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SHALL I SAY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DEEP IN THE QUIET WOOD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON MOTHER NIGHT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON WAITER IN A CALIFORNIA VIETNAMESE RESTURANT by CLARENCE MAJOR |