27 Rows of Elegy, or Clairvoyance (Poem C)

The trumpets bellowed one by one,

One after the other;

A vocation solemn

Has come.

Twenty-seven, row upon row

The death-age of this poet,

The golden trumpets crow.

Twenty-twenty-five, when this dear artist died,

The ravens they goaded him,

And rows of folks all cried.

And now

One by one,

On that solemn vocation,

The trumpets they bellow,

For poetic admiration?

No;

For even after I died,

They only pay respects

For I paid for their vacations,

As they play bills off their chest.

Roses upon rows,

Heavy-headed folks, who never know,

Saddened now especially so,

As at twenty seven years of age

The paid trumpets, they bellow,

With the accidental death

Of this poet - sallow and pale,

The rich but penury, poor fatherless fellow.