Not even he, the Priest, had cried
No-one wept upon my grave
Just a dry and empty ugly hole,
Containing bones of my former soul
And then they brought
Machinery,
A back-end hoe
To push the dirt so hastily
Upon my seemingly
quite worthless soul.
The workmen said that they were late,
And sorry for my awful state
But maybe I deserved such Pauper's Fate.
-at least -
But I had miles to go.
"O our new King has come at last,
Let Him have His Crown !"
But I declined (quite rightly)
And never did I frown.
Now I sing and frolick
here
upon the joyous clouds,
Never think of poverty
And never do look down.