My Monument

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My Monument

It is pleasant to think, as I’m watching my ink

A-drying along my paper,

That a monument fine will surely be mine

When death has extinguished my taper.

From each pitiless scribe of the critic tribe

Purged clean of all sentiments narrow,

A pebble will mark his respect for the stark

Stiff body that’s under the barrow.

Thus stone upon stone by reviewers thrown,

Will make my celebrity deathless.

O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink,

They’d wait till my carcass is breathless.