Jimmy

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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