A Crocodile

Nay, Peter Robertson, ’tis not for you
  To blubber o’er Max Taubles for he’s dead.
By Heaven! my hearty, if you only knew
  How better is a grave-worm in the head
Than brains like yours⁠—how far more decent, too,
  A tomb in far Korea than a bed
Where Peter lies with Peter, you would covet
His happier state and, dying, learn to love it.

In the recesses of the silent tomb
  No Maunderings of yours disturb the peace.
Your mental bag-pipe, droning like the gloom
  Of Hades audible, perforce must cease
From troubling further; and that crack o’ doom,
  Your mouth, shaped like a long bow, shall release
In vain such shafts of wit as it can utter⁠—
The ear of death can’t even hear them flutter.