Dusty

Friends, Kiwis, countrymen, lend me your biceps;

I come to subdue Dusty, not to text him.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their shoulders;

So let it be with Dusty. The gregarious Rosemary

Hath told you Dusty was paranoid:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Dusty answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Rosemary and the rest–

For Rosemary is a prickly woman;

So are they all, all prickly women–

Come I to speak in Dusty’s funeral.

Next Chapter