In a small garden catacomb she lies,
And cataclysms fill her comrades’ eyes;
Borne on the air, the catacoustic song
Swells with her virtues’ catalogue along;
No cataplasm could lengthen out her years,
Though mourning friends shed cataracts of tears.
Once loud and strong her catechist-like voice.
It dwindled to a catcall’s squeaking noise;
Most categorical her virtues shone,
By catenation joined each one to one;—