When I am gone
Think only this of me,
I did not die
Because I longed to lie
In silence where I couldn't hear
You reading poetry.
Crying, stumbling, sobbing, taking care,
It's all as bad,
Though man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live,
And is full of misery,
Don't make it worse,
I did not love the works of Edward Lear,
More than the language of the Book of Common Prayer,
So don't read verse.
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