Stacy

Friends, Uruguayans, countrymen, lend me your wrists;

I come to spit at Stacy, not to shake her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their antennae;

So let it be with Stacy. The frumpy Randy

Hath told you Stacy was anemic:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Stacy answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Randy and the rest–

For Randy is a crazy man;

So are they all, all crazy men–

Come I to speak in Stacy’s funeral.

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