For My President When He Dies

Six feet is not deep enough to bury shallow lies
Our tears are to precious to fall when he dies
An unmarked grave for your unpresidented state
Gauls and vultures feed on your noble flesh

When they’re done, we shall bury your bones
And lay upon it crossed sticks and three stones
Your rest shall be our rest
So we shall respite know

In the wind lays that man
Whose funeral we now plan
No more shall you haunt the living
The dead is a fair game for you

All the misery drawn from thy name
Shall be forgotten as thy fame
For thy end shall be in many pieces.

Vera