THE DEMOCRATS
I always hope your ghost can not come back, For it would break your tidy heart to seeHow, round your stone, the greedy wild weeds pack, And buttercups allure the careless bee.You were so neat in life, you loved to mark With tape and rule the substance of your days;You measured every hour from dawn to dark And never wandered in unscheduled ways.
A row of tiles kept in your pruned loves; Your passions, too, were clipt and deftly trimmed.To lift your dust the reckless vine-root moves; Your very name with lichen rags is rimmed.Two dragonflies in summer wantoning Coquet about the rail. The red wasp supsOn blooms spawned from the fecund dust of spring; And over you, those wild and golden cupsLaugh at the rust on Custom's gilded glaive— Pert vagabonds that fill the gipsy track—To make a lawless tangle o'er your grave. I always hope your ghost can not come back!
