They have planted him deep in a grave by the fence, where the sand burs
are thick and the jimson is dense; he's sleeping at last, and as still
as a mouse, held down by a boulder as big as a house, and the
whangdoodle mourns in a neighboring tree, with a voice that's as sad as
the sorrowing sea. They have planted him deep in the silt and the
sand, with appropriate airs by the fife and drum band, and they
joyfully yell when the sad rites are o'er: "Gosh ding him, he's taking
his straw votes no more."