Classic Poem

(Lying spying what men say of dead men,
What men say of me —
I can't remember anything.
Why can't I remember
What I alive knew of death
I dead know nothing of?)

" Poor John, John, John, John, John,"
Said the parson as he perched
On the sharp left discomfort
Of John John's tombstone —
John, John, John, John, John.

Cobbler on the right
Hammered out the memory
Of the nails of John's soles.
Mercer in the middle
Remembered the measure
Of John's extraordinary shroud.

But no further the parson, the cobbler, the mercer,
Lying spying
In the graveyard,
Where night fell deeper darker,
Dead men mumbled, might be mumbling,
Something secret about life.

Lying spying
John, John, John, John, John,
Parson, cobbler, mercer, parson.