MARION COUTHOUY SMITH
THE COMPOSITE GHOST
They were placed on exhibition, in a long, imposing row,
All who’d borne the name of Spriggins for three centuries or so;
From old Amram, who came over in the Pilgrim Fathers’ track,
To the late lamented Jane, for whom the family still wore black.
They stood upon a hardwood shelf, in rich and proud array,
Not disposed, I beg to state, in any grim, offensive way.
They were not a row of mummies, standing terrible and tall,