Alf

Friends, Australians, countrymen, lend me your hair;

I come to lick Alf, not to write him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their esophaguses;

So let it be with Alf. The fuzzy Bev

Hath told you Alf was miniscule:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Alf answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Bev and the rest–

For Bev is a creepy woman;

So are they all, all creepy women–

Come I to speak in Alf’s funeral.

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