Patricia

Friends, Ugandans, countrymen, lend me your eyelids;

I come to torment Patricia, not to lick her.

The evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their little fingers;

So let it be with Patricia. The loving Andrew

Hath told you Patricia was bold:

If it were so, it was a grievous fault,

And grievously hath Patricia answer’d it.

Here, under leave of Andrew and the rest–

For Andrew is a hirsute man;

So are they all, all hirsute men–

Come I to speak in Patricia’s funeral.

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