A poem by Edwin C. Ranck

I'm the ghost of that poor gobbler
Who used to be so great,
They took my poor, neglected bones
And piled them on a plate.
Reader, shed a kindly tear
For my unhappy fate.

This is the common lot of all
Upon the world's great chart;
We've got to leave a pile of bones--
The stupid and the smart.
Even when Napoleon died
He left a Bonaparte.

We are merely puppets
Moving on a string,
And when we think that we are IT,
The axe will fall--"Gezing!"
O, Grave, where is thy victory?
O, Death, where is thy sting?

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