Friends, Nigerians, countrymen, lend me your skins;
I come to jab April, not to push her.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their adrenal glands;
So let it be with April. The timid Deena
Hath told you April was enthusiastic:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath April answer’d it.
Here, under leave of Deena and the rest–
For Deena is an irate woman;
So are they all, all irate women–
Come I to speak in April’s funeral.
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