Grotesque and grim the pageant struts;
We sit a-straddle on the crosses.
Our soulless missiles take for butts
The passers’ hats, or in their guts
Disturb their dinner’s process.
Thus one man’s work is one man’s play;
The melancholy help the merry.
All tread the ordered stupid way
At Paris, upon Dead Man’s Day,
In Pére Lachaise his cemetery.
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