Shapes of Clay

I died. As meekly in the earth I lay,

With shriveled fingers reverently folded,

The worm—uncivil engineer!—my clay

Tunneled industriously, and the mole did.

My body could not dodge them, but my soul did;

For that had flown from this terrestrial ball

And I was rid of it for good and all.

So there I lay, debating what to do—

What measures might most usefully be taken

To circumvent the subterranean crew

Of anthropophagi and save my bacon.

My fortitude was all this while unshaken,

But any gentleman, of course, protests

Against receiving uninvited guests.

However proud he might be of his meats,

Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus,

Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets;

"Aut Caesar," say judicious hosts, "aut nullus."

And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus

Aufidius feasted him because he starved,

Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved.

We feed the hungry, as the book commands

(For men might question else our orthodoxy)

But do not care to see the outstretched hands,

And so we minister to them by proxy.

When Want, in his improper person, knocks he

Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh

To think we like his presence in the flesh.

So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all

That underworld no judges could determine

My rights. When Death approaches them they fall,

And falling, naturally soil their ermine.

And still below ground, as above, the vermin

That work by dark and silent methods win

The case—the burial case that one is in.

Cases at law so slowly get ahead,

Even when the right is visibly unclouded,

That if all men are classed as quick and dead,

The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded.

Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded

On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight,

His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite.

Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot

A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish

And woman to caress, the muse had not

Lamented the decay of virtues currish,

And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish,

For barking, biting, kissing to employ

Canine repeaters were indeed a joy.

Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I,

Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping,

By moles and worms and such familiar fry

Run through and through, am singing still and harping

Of mundane matters—flatting, too, and sharping.

I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup:

So I'm for getting—and for shutting—up.