Why is it that I can’t attend
The celebration of my end?
Why can’t I, too, enjoy the praise
They lavish on my livelier days?
Amid their tears, they’ll ponder why
so fine a person had to die;
they’ll quote my poems, line by line,
and drink until there’s no more wine
and eat up all the fancy food
and leave in rather cheery mood.
Alas, the party’s honored guest
is snoring in eternal rest!
Would not their joy seem more warm-hearted
Were I still dear, but less departed?