Stone Dead hath no fellow
 

Since the Speccie is no good for our purposes this week, here is a little time-waster. No prizes this side of the grave. Write an epitaph to yourself. This was inspired by Herrick's, to be found in Gail White's post on the 'Brief Candles' thread. Make it wider. Write an epitaph.

Hewre's John Gay's epitaph to himself. (Gay wrote 'The Beggar's Opera)

Life is a jest, and all thingsshow it;
I thought so once, but now I know it.

And Wliiam Blake's (A dyke here is a stream and not a wall).

I was buried nearthis dyke,
That my friends may weep as much as they like.

And here is one that many people know but (perhaps) s0me do not.

EPITAPH FROM ABERDEEN

Here lie the bones of Elizabeth Charlotte
Born a virgin, died a harlot
She was aye a virgin at seventeen
A remarkable thing in Aberdeen

I've always rather liked Dryden's (not for himself, but for his wife). Then again, I rather doubt that Elizabeth Charlotte wrote her own either.

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

I wrote my own long ago, and I'm sticking with it:

............Fee fie foe fum
............So my time to go has come.
............Foe fum fee fie
............Comes a time we all must die.
............Fie foe fum fee
............Sighs the world a sigh for me?
............Fum fee fie foe
............Don't be silly. Hell no.

John Mella at Light published this for me, I fear it becomes more apposite as time goes by-

Here lies a poet of ill-repute
who wrote a poem and no one knew it.
His problem- and there was no cure-
was using words that were obscure.
And when one hundred would not do,
he had no qualms in using two.

He lies among these serried rows
psycholinguistically pruinose.

This one exists in so many versions that I think it's apocryphal, but I
like it just the same:

Here lie I, Martin Elginbrod,
Have mercy on my soul, Lord God,
As I would do, if I were God
And ye were Martin Elginbrod.


Here's one I wrote years ago:

EPITAPH OF THE UNKNOWN POET

When I was young and healthy,
it made my spirit groan
to see what fools were famous
while I was all unknown.

But now I'm dead and buried,
the value of my fame
and that of William Shakespeare
look very much the same.

one by me also published in Light
 

Red Kiss

Who will miss me when I’m dead?
Maybe someone reading this
is just the sort of daisy head
who will miss me when I’m dead
and planted in a tulip bed.
To her, I offer this red kiss.
Who will miss me when I’m dead?
Maybe someone reading this.

He that supper for is dight,
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Grey-steel has made his bed!

--Sir Eger, Sir Grahame and Sir Gray-Steel.

Though in some aspects he did fail
He never wore a ponytail.

Sam, was this an epitaph for Sweden's former Minister of Finance? The present one is youngish, and has a pony tail and the economy is going down hill.

An Epitaph In Audiences:

For the Frummers

Here lies something of a naif
who knew not kosher meals from treif;
now I suppose the joke's on me,
unclean for all of time, you see.
But come to think, on you as well --
we just don't have a robust Hell.


For Feminists

A curiosity you seek?
Here lies a man, who does not speak


For my Wife

Perhaps as you suggest I'll know
where those we disapprove of go;
Perhaps I'll just make green things grow -
For here I lie (and am laid Lo.)


For my Coworkers*

Here I take my final leave,
filed in the correspondence sleeve
with request for me-removal,
submitted for the Big Approval.
To the ergonomic judgment chair;
performance reviews are handled there
by Him whose grade is said to be
above GS-Infinity

* this epitaph conveys the opinion of the deceased only and is not written on behalf of or for the benefit of the United States government or any agency thereof.

Here's one I wrote about myself in high school:

He sought to find himself;
he found his answer:
he is a ray of sunshine --
sunshine causes cancer.

I guess it's not funny if you don't know me. Or maybe it's not funny at all.