Am I my Aunt Kiziah, or am I your brother Paul?
Oh, Spriggins—Ebenezer J!—Oh, wretch! Oh, fool! Oh, rash!
How could you mix our ashes in one vast, ancestral hash?”
Thus ending, with a mingled wail of misery and rage,
That awful vision ceased to speak, and vanished from the stage,
While ghostly groanings issued from the various urns around,
But poor old Spriggins heard no more—he swooned upon the ground.
And now these mingled embers ’neath memorial marbles lie,
And Spriggins and his family will be buried when they die.