How Sweet to Die in a Small Town
How sweet to die in a small town!
There no unfeeling and blase aenemic,
Sucking a limp and listless cigaret,
Mangles you with a rough obituary,
A few crude lines, all wrong,
Wrung o'er the phone from hospital or morgue.
Nor are you hustled to the slab still warm,
To lie with noisome lilies over you,
In darksome silence till your burial hour,
When a few hectic friends dash up,
Leap from their shuddering cars and almost miss
Your slide into the hearse.
Naively they ask how much you left, nor join
The thin line leading to your resting place,
Which they shall never see.
In the great hive where you were naught before