Poetry Archives

Dear dead Victoria
  Rotted cosily;
In excelsis gloria,
  And R. I. P.

And her shroud was buttoned neat,
  And her bones were clean and round,
And her soul was at her feet
  Like a bishop’s marble hound.

Albert lay a-drying,
  Lavishly arrayed,
With his soul out flying
  Where his heart had stayed.

And there’s some could tell you what land
  His spirit walks serene
(But I’ve heard them say in Scotland
  It’s never been seen).