Mr. Pope

When Alexander Pope strolled in the city Strict was the glint of pearl and ''old sedans. Ladies leaned out more out of fear than pity For Pope's tight back was rather a goat's than man's Often one thinks the urn should have more bones Than skeletons provide for speedy dust, The urn gets hollow, cobwebs brittle as stones Weave to the funeral shell a frivolous rust. And he who dribbled couplets like a snake Coiled to a lithe precision in the sun Is missing. The jar is empty; you may break It only to find that Mr. Pope is gone. What requisitions of a verity Prompted the wit and rage between his teeth One cannot say. Around a crooked tree A moral climbs whose name should be a wreath.