Mahatma

Friends, Singaporeans, countrymen, lend me your waists;

I come to joke with Mahatma, not to transform him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their nostrils;

So let it be with Mahatma. The monstrous Trixie

Hath told you Mahatma was shy:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Mahatma answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Trixie and the rest–

For Trixie is a sleepy woman;

So are they all, all sleepy women–

Come I to speak in Mahatma’s funeral.

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