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Requiescas in Pace!

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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