Here is a morsel, my masters, a tit-bit, The corse of a crown from a high gallows hung! The worms have his lips, but a wind in the gibbet Has found him a tongue, To whisper and whimper in maudlin palaver Of hand he has held, or of head, or of breast, Or whatever the soul of that swinging cadaver Remembers as best. He dangles and dances like any old stocking Strung out on the line of a wash day to dry, But his eyes, which are not, from their sockets are mocking The world passing by. He reminds you of some one? Ah, that is past chaffing; The broth of a jest, though it's peppered too free To tickle my palate. Nay; why are you laughing -- And looking at me? |