Here lies entombed one Roger Morton,
Whose sudden death was early brought on;
Trying one day his corn to mow off,
The razor slipped and cut his toe off.
The toe, or rather what it grew to,
An inflammation quickly flew to;
The parts they took to mortifying,
And poor dear Roger took to dying.
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The death angel struck Alexander McGlue
And gave him protracted repose;
He wore a checked shirt and a No. 9 shoe
And had a pink wart on his nose.
No doubt he is happy a-dwelling in space
Over on the evergreen shore.
His friends are informed that his funeral takes place
At precisely a quarter past four.
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At Brightwell, Oron. On S. Rumbold, born February, 1582:
He lived one hundred and five,
Sanguine and strong;
A hundred to five,
You live not so long.
Dy'd March 4, 1687.
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