Shapes of Clay

It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink

A-drying along my paper,

That a monument fine will surely be mine

When death has extinguished my taper.

From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe

Purged clean of all sentiments narrow,

A pebble will mark his respect for the stark

Stiff body that's under the barrow.

By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone

Will make my celebrity deathless.

O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink,

They'd wait till my carcass is breathless.