The gnawing pangs of conscience try to hide,
Go, quench the blush caused by thy action’s shame,
Heap on thyself discredit for thy pride;
Thou’st sunk for gain, thy erstwhile honour’d name.
That name, thy years, thy choice to power misuse,
Thy selfish deed, this elegy supply,
Which round thy fame unholy blessings strews,
For thou hast left the N.R.A. to die.
The Epitaph.
There now lies dead upon this spot of earth