A Paroday
When that churlish Death bones my dust shall cover up
And shalt money once more re-survey in the wallet
These poor dudes line of demarcay becomes the lover,
Compost them into the butter ring of time,
And though they be stripped outright off the form,
Reserve for them my lyrics, not their rhyme,
Exceeded by the weight of nappier men.
Oh, then couchsafe who with but this loving thought:
"Had my friend's Nose grown without this growing hang,
A dearer booger than this his middle finger had brought
To wipe in rank off on his better equipage;
But since he missed let poets pause and wipe,
Theirs for their noses I shall wipe, his equipage love."
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