My Epitaph

Oh, praise me now if you would please My soul with soothing flatteries. Praise with my living clay agrees. 'Tis sweet, I vow. Give me kind words while I can feel The modest blushes gently steal, What time my virtues you reveal. Oh, praise me now! For, when the vital spark has fled, No matter what kind words are said, I'll simply go on being dead And take no heed. Or if, perchance, beneath the clay, I hear some kindly critic say, 'He was a boshter'in his day!' 'Twere hard indeed. 'Twere bitter hard to be confined, Gagged by grim Death, while fellows kind Call my good qualities to mind, And softly sigh. I vow I'd writhe within my bier, And strive to croak at least, 'Hear, hear!' For I have ever prized that dear Right to reply. And, when at last I meet my doom And moulder in the chilly tomb, Gaunt Death might play within the gloom Who knows what pranks. My very skeleton would squirm To hear, on my behalf, some worm Or some unlettered grave-yard germ Returning thanks. Then, if you're keen on praising me, I'd rather be alive to see And hear and feel the flattery, And know 'tis true. And when I rise to make reply I fain would droop a modest eye And by my halting, speech imply It is my due. I do not want a monument. Why should good money so be spent? Nay, put it out at ten per cent., And when you save Enough to purchase goodly fare, Then spread me out a banquet rare. No gift's appreciated there, Within the grave. Oh, praise me now while I am here; In my attentive living ear Pour adulation; never fear I mind the row. I love you harp upon Those dulcet strings. Play on, play on! Do not delay until I'm gone. But praise me now!