The beads of perspiration rolled
And bathed him cheek and jowl;
He fanned himself with palm leaf fan
And mopped his face with a towel.
Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat,
And into a smile broke he.
He’d been some working “mon” that day;
He’d had funerals twelve, you see.
“Not common-like of common folks,”
He said, and his laugh beguiled,