From the New York Tribune, November 21, 1914. By Irwin.
When you are dead and buried, friend,
There’s nothing to delight or grieve you;
You live, you die, and that’s the end,
Let no religious myth deceive you.
Your goodly wife no more will meet
You as you wave the evening paper;
Once dead you’ll read no sporting sheet,
You’ll cut no latest fox-trot caper.
For death destroys your petty “I,”
You do not know that you’ve existed;
Though folks may pity you, and cry,
They’ve got their metaphysics twisted.
They weep for you and mourn your fate,
And prate of all the joys you’re losing;
You’re happy (this they never state),
In one eternal, dreamless snoozing.
They moan, dissolved in salty tears,
Their wailing is a mournful riot;
The fools! They quake with noisy fears,
At least you rest in peace and quiet.
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