Daisy

Friends, Congolese, countrymen, lend me your waists;

I come to consider Daisy, not to pat her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their nostrils;

So let it be with Daisy. The spindly Maureen

Hath told you Daisy was sassy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Daisy answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Maureen and the rest–

For Maureen is a weird woman;

So are they all, all weird women–

Come I to speak in Daisy’s funeral.

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