Joe Licon 1904-1920

Joe Licon 1904-1920 Who was that coughing at my side? Which of my manly pallbearers Leaned upon my casket On that distant funeral day? Who was it that yawned, Loudly, sleepily, lazily, On the day they covered my bones with dry dirt, Here in the comfortable darkness, Of shadowy Mt. Olive Cemetery? Who was it that said: “I will miss him,” Even when he began tapping his restless fingers, One after the other, Upon the wonderful mohogany finish, Of my well-made polished coffin? To whom do I credit for The distilled drops of sated tears, Which fell noisily upon the buttercups, Dotting my newly-made grave? My friends, don’t ever imagine that we, the dead are dead, When you, the living, bury us. For we can hear your plaintive cries of “O,” moaning; We can feel your grieving hearts, breaking; We can taste your “tempest-tossed” tears, slaking. So, my friends, Who was that coughing at my side? Kindly lend him a handkerchief, if you please.