|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
BLACK BUTTERFLY
POETRY, PROSE AND PAINTINGS
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Grave thoughts
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||
Unhappy lie the bones of old Robert Jones as do those of Nathanial Wallace But happy, by there, lies young Malcolm Adair in whom both young widows took solace.
In life she chose to live alone, did Ada Mary Harris. 'Returned unopened' should mark her stone, sour spinster of this parish.
Here lies Morgan buried with his organ that he played in church every day though he's deep under ground he'll probably be found happily playing away.
My name is Jack Jones I lived my life and lived it bloody well I drank too much, deceived my wife. I've likely gone to hell.
Lord Emmanuel Grey, now he is dead, lies close beside his wife. Much closer in death, so it is said than ever they lay in life.
Beside the church, in pride of place, lies diocesan Bishop Hay A brewery cart dismissed his grace, too pissed to get out of the way.
Pauper Tom's grave is somewhere near, A simple, unmarked stone. In life and death it seems, my dear the poor are left alone. |