Joanne

Friends, Armenians, countrymen, lend me your femurs;

I come to recoil from Joanne, not to scratch her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their abdomens;

So let it be with Joanne. The arrogant Aristotle

Hath told you Joanne was irate:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Joanne answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Aristotle and the rest–

For Aristotle is a dependable man;

So are they all, all dependable men–

Come I to speak in Joanne’s funeral.

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