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An Obituarian Post by :slayer Category :Poems Author :Ambrose Bierce Date :March 2011 Read :2771

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An Obituarian

Death-poet Pickering sat at his desk,
Wrapped in appropriate gloom;
His posture was pensive and picturesque,
Like a raven charming a tomb.

Enter a party a-drinking the cup
Of sorrow--and likewise of woe:
"Some harrowing poetry, Mister, whack up,
All wrote in the key of O.

"For the angels has called my old woman hence
From the strife (where she fit mighty free).
It's a nickel a line? Cond--n the expense!
For wealth is now little to me."

The Bard of Mortality looked him through
In the piercingest sort of a way:
"It is much to me though it's little to you--
I've _taken_ a wife to-day."

So he twisted the tail of his mental cow
And made her give down her flow.
The grief of that bard was long-winded, somehow--
There was reams and reamses of woe.

The widower man which had buried his wife
Grew lily-like round each gill,
For she turned in her grave and came back to life--
Then he cruel ignored the bill!

Then Sorrow she opened her gates a-wide,
As likewise did also Woe,
And the death-poet's song, as is heard inside,
Is sang in the key of O.

(The end)
Ambrose Bierce's poem: Obituarian

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A Commuted Sentence A Commuted Sentence

A Commuted Sentence
Boruck and Waterman upon their grills In Hades lay, with many a sigh and groan, Hotly disputing, for each swore his ownWere clearly keener than the other's ills. And, truly, each had much to boast of--boneAnd sinew, muscle, tallow, nerve and skin,Blood in the vein and marrow in the shin, Teeth, eyes and other organs (for the soulHas all of these and even a wagging chin) Blazing and coruscating like a coal!For Lower Sacramento, you remember,Has trying weather, even in mid-December.Now this occurred in the far future. All Mankind had been a million ages dead,

The Key Note The Key Note

The Key Note
I dreamed I was dreaming one morn as I lay In a garden with flowers teeming.On an island I lay in a mystical bay, In the dream that I dreamed I was dreaming.The ghost of a scent--had it followed me there From the place where I truly was resting?It filled like an anthem the aisles of the air, The presence of roses attesting.Yet I thought in the dream that I dreamed I dreamed That the place was all barren of roses--That it only seemed; and the place, I deemed, Was the Isle of Bewildered Noses.Full