A DEAD ONE.

A DEAD ONE.
563.2

Brathes there a man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself has said:
“My trade of late is getting bad:
I’ll try another ton-inch ad.”
If such there be go mark him well;
For him no bank account will swell,
No angels watch the golden stair
To welcome home the mil- Honaire.
The man who never asks for trade
By local line of ad dis- played,
Cares more for rest than worldly gain,
And patronage but gives him pain.
Tread lightly, friend; let no rude sound
Disturb his solitude pro- found,
Here let him live in calm repose,
Unsought except by men he owes,
And when he dies go plant him deep,
That naught may break his dreamless sleep:
Where no rude clamor may dispel
The quiet that he loved so well.
And when the world may know its loss,
Place on his grave wreath of moss,
And on the stone above: “Here lles
A chump who advertise.” woudn’t
-M. L. Carey.