The Last Word
In search of lasting fame, he raised
himself a monument: a crazed
and ostentatious folly, built
of marble, laced about with gilt
for ornament, designed in mock-
Egyptian mixed with late Baroque,
with Grecian porticos, and sets
of neo-Gothic minarets:
a thing that would have quite digraced
a magpie's sense of proper taste;
with lots of statues, all of him
enthroned among the cherubim,
and busts and portraits by the ton;
and, when the gaudy thing was done,
he carved upon its massive base:
Here Lies, Beneath This Hallowed Place,
A Man Whose Lofty, Noble Mind
Reflected Glory On Mankind;
A Peerless, Wise, And Saintly Sage;
The Very Wonder Of His Age,
With All The Gifts That Heaven Sends;
Who, Now His Mortal Jouney Ends,
Lays Down His Burden, And With Great
Humility (His Leading Trait)
Accepts His Heavenly Reward
As What Is Owed Him By The Lord..
Today, his tomb, as you might guess
(what's left of it) does not impress:
for, since he'd chosen to reject
advice from every architect,
and botched his grandiose design
in each distorted, crooked line,
and built upon the shifting sand,
his mausoleum didn't stand
for quite so long as he had planned;
and Time, that loves the final laugh,
has edited his epitaph.
A word's sufficient to the wise.
One word remains, and that is: Lies.
