Ashes to ashes,
mildew to mildew,
God said, "Come home."
I answered, "Will do."

Ode to Stephen Dowling Bots, Dec'd

And did young Stephen sicken,
And did young Stephen die?
And did the sad hearts thicken,
And did the mourners cry?

No; such was not the fate of
Young Stephen Dowling Bots;
Though sad hearts round him thickened,
'Twas not from sickness' shots.

No whooping-cough did rack his frame,
Nor measles drear with spots;
Not these impaired the sacred name
Of Stephen Dowling Bots.

Despised love struck not with woe
That head of curly knots,
Nor stomach troubles laid him low,
Young Stephen Dowling Bots.

O no. Then list with tearful eye,
Whilst I his fate do tell.
His soul did from this cold world fly
By falling down a well.

They got him out and emptied him;
Alas it was too late;
His spirit was gone for to sport aloft
In the realms of the good and great.

-- Mark Twain

She never could leave well alone;
she changed her poems from day to day
and couldn't put the things away.
They're finished now. She's dead and gone.

Carol

Here lies a player of poetry's poker.
She played for high stakes, but was still mediocre.

Here lies a champagne socialist
who died both virtuous and pissed.

Here lies a Marxist CEO
whose heart was red but not for show.
“Better in the black”, he said,
“I’ll come out of hiding once I’m dead.”


Here lies a prig who took his life
when disappointed by his wife.
Here lies his wife who lived to laugh,
which proved she was the better half.




[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited November 22, 2006).]

(I know this isn't an epitaph, but Marion's constant interest in the classics inspired me, and I don't know where else to put it:

There was a young man from Nantucket,
who ate every clam in the bucket.
Said he with a grin,
as he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were an oyster, I'd shuck it!"

Now - back to epitaphs:

I am that young man from Nantucket
you've heard of, and I've had bad luck: it
occured on my boat -
something tickled my throat -
I bit through it so I could upchuck it.



[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 22, 2006).]

And let's not overlook Dryden's classic:

........Here lies my wife: here let her lie!
........Now she's at rest, and so am I.

Here lies Michael Cantor
A critter we loved to curse
Whose egotistical banter
Always made matters verse.

Here lies the remains of Marion Shore
Whose verse shall grace the Sphere no more.
She climbed such heights to great acclaim
Then lost her footing and died of shame.

And what can be said of Roger Slater
which hasn’t been said before?
We knew he’d get it, sooner than later,
But he never got Marion Shore.