You've heard of Richard Randle Rox? He died; they put him in a box,
and lowered him into a grave, and said: "He'll surely now behave."
For years this fertile Richard penned books, rhymes and essays without
end. His helpful, moral dope was seen in every uplift magazine, and
people used to wonder how the wheels within that bulging brow produced
such countless bales of thought, such wondrous wealth of tomyrot; and
folks chewed cloves and cotton waste to try to take away the taste.
At last he died before his time--killed off by an ingrowing rhyme. The
mourners laid him on his pall, his three assorted names and all, and
said: "Doggone him! Now he'll stop this thing of writing helpful
slop." He got the finest grave in town, and marble things to hold him
down.
Long years have passed since R. R. Rox was placed in silver-mounted
box; and does he rest in peace? Instead, he's working harder now he's
dead. New books are coming from his pen until the chastened sons of
men look round, their eyelids red with grief--look round, imploring for
relief. "Is there no way," so wails the host, "to lay this Richard
Randle's ghost?"