For forty cents an hour I slaved At Delpont's Powder Mills; And all the money that I saved Scarce paid my funeral bills. Erected to our father is this stone: He couldn't leave the whiskey flask alone; To Spirit World he vanished from our sight; We hope he's very snug, and _know_ he's tight. Above the clouds I sojourn now, The twinkling stars between, Because I tried to figure how To cook with gasolene. I'm _dead_ all right, but not quite _all right_ dead, For schemes of vengeance hurtle thru my head; My wife eloped, a cheating chicken she; Forsook her nest, and then flew back to me With all her brood: I love her as I useter But I'm a-laying for that other Rooster. I followed Father with the rake The day he scythed the clover; So _green_, he cut _me_, by mistake And my heydays were over. Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick! _We_ couldn't make him _without paregoric_. I'm not averse to being dead, But this I do despise,-- To have a tombstone at my head Inscribed with blooming lies: "A faithful spouse, a parent kind; Alas, too soon he went!" But this is all they had in mind-- To get my last red cent. Assembled here my Wife is, Helen Nation: 'Twas gasoline that caused the separation, Which shows how very short the mortal lease is,-- I think 'twas lucky to have saved the pieces! Here let me rest without a sigh or tear, I've learned my lesson--not to interfere! If I could live my mortal life agin I'd be a pussyfoot and not butt in. My Mother, famous for her pies Lies buried 'neath this shaft; I wonder if, in Paradise, She still pursues her craft? She'll be too much engrossed, 'twould seem, In picking on the lyre To give attention to a scheme To bake without a fire. But if perchance she had the dough And couldn't make it rise, I'm sure she'd know just where to go To look for _heat_ supplies. He called me "Liar!" Like a flash My honor I defended, Until his razor cut a gash So deep, that I was ended. If I could live my life again I'd not invite an issue But say, when villified, Amen! And thus preserve my tissue. THE CONQUEST OF THE SUN The Morning Sun, with golden dart, Crept to Milady's bed; And as he drew the screens apart A halo crowned her head. Such radiance he'd never viewed; Enraptured, he surveyed Her virgin charms: beatitude! He stooped and kissed the maid. Entranced because her splendor seemed To dazzle as it shone, He conjured all his wiles and beamed Her burning cheeks upon. And then she woke, Milady fair, Enchanted by his art, To find, 'midst fires a slumb'ring there, His dart had pierced her heart.