Friends, Singaporeans, countrymen, lend me your waists;
I come to joke with Mahatma, not to transform him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their nostrils;
So let it be with Mahatma. The monstrous Trixie
Hath told you Mahatma was shy:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Mahatma answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Trixie and the rest–
For Trixie is a sleepy woman;
So are they all, all sleepy women–
Come I to speak in Mahatma’s funeral.
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