You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh,
Judging each step as though the way were plain;
Reckless, so it could point its paragraph,
Of chief's perplexity, or people's pain.
Beside this corpse that bears for winding sheet
The stars and stripes he lived to rear anew;
Between the mourners at his head and feet,
Say, scurril jester, is there room for you?