* * * * *

Here Porter Ashe is laid to rest
Green grows the grass upon his breast. 
This patron of the turf, I vow,
Ne’er served it half so well as now.

* * * * *

Like a cold fish escaping from its tank,
Hence fled the soul of Joe Russel, crank. 
He cried:  “Cold water!” roaring like a beast. 
’Twas thrown upon him and the music ceased.

* * * * *

Here Estee rests.  He shook a basket,
When, like a jewel from its casket,
Fell Felton out.  Said Estee, shouting
With mirth; “I’ve given you an outing.” 
Then told him to go back.  He wouldn’t. 
Then tried to put him back.  He couldn’t. 
So Estee died (his blood congealing
In Felton’s growing shadow) squealing.

* * * * *

Mourn here for one Bruner, called Elwood. 
He doesn’t—­he never did—­smell good
  To noses of critics and scholars. 
If now he’d an office to sell could
He sell it?  O, no—­where (in Hell) could
  He find a cool four hundred dollars?

* * * * *

Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd
That he should go to meet his God. 
He looked, until his eyes grew dim,
For God to hasten to meet him.