C. T. Suddeth

My version of a Mexican Calaveras

RIP

Here lies Charles Suddeth

Until we gave him his very last rite,

He thought he was one who could write.

So very bad was each and every book,

It’s a shame he never learned to cook.

He never had lands and money,

And neither did he ever have a honey.

His mourners we paid by the hour,

The same for each and every flower.

As we sent him off in a horse drawn hearse,

We thought it could have been so much worse.