Friends, Congolese, countrymen, lend me your belly buttons;
I come to poke Jimmy, not to listen to him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their lungs;
So let it be with Jimmy. The forgetful Ira
Hath told you Jimmy was obedient:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Jimmy answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Ira and the rest–
For Ira is a frantic man;
So are they all, all frantic men–
Come I to speak in Jimmy’s funeral.
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