Luke

Friends, Bolivians, countrymen, lend me your intestines;

I come to mesmerize Luke, not to hug him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their little fingers;

So let it be with Luke. The young Jim Bob

Hath told you Luke was tense:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Luke answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Jim Bob and the rest–

For Jim Bob is a stubby man;

So are they all, all stubby men–

Come I to speak in Luke’s funeral.

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