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Mrs. Parker Speaks Gravely
Once upon a time I rested, safe, secure and unmolested
My cremains cozily nested in my lawyer’s file drawer
For twenty years post-mortem I awaited proper obsequy
But as I was the last to die of all my silly little corps
I dusted up with my lawyer
Misfiled, of course, in the “D” drawer
Miss Filed, perhaps, forevermore
My estate I’d left to Dr. King -- I left him every blessed thing
Not knowing he’d be following the next year to El Dorado
That’s how my stuff all came to be NAACP property
Over Lillian Hellman’s protests, she battled like a torrid Coronado
My executrix thought she’d hit the lotto
Instead, she must have hit the bottle
(And with certainty, the brand from the store)
Back to my ashes, in probate until mid-1988,
When my lawyer finally could not wait to empty out his file drawer
A call to the NAACP asked, pick up or delivery?
So they made a little grave for me and on 20 October
I was finally laid to rest once more --
A memorial garden in Baltimore
Laid for good, forevermore
Now the living are so full of words and most are simply for the birds
But none so patently absurd as those which mourn the gone
Tho “excuse my dust” is all I claimed to underscore my entombed name
The stone which lies atop this dame rattles on and on and on
It helps each day, dusk to dawn
To fertilize this little lawn
A gift that gives forevermore
So here we are, as I said, in Baltimore, by accident
(And I hear no end of this from Fred, that afterlife tee-total-bore)
But I submit my company is fine: Mencken, Nash, the Fitzes, Stein,
Morbid Poe, Holy Divine – the list goes to the floor
And the moral of which we can be sure
Is never to say nevermore
Lest you wake at heaven’s door
With your remains in Baltimore
This moral alone, and nothing more
Except where noted, all contents copyright © 2004 Rahne Alexander.
All rights reserved
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