I might as well tell you know, I know where
your kin lie buried; all the graves are cornerstones
and every etching's been wiped clean by the master.
I hope you don't forget what each one said, for we
have to set repairs and someday make new stones
for each. I don't know what happened, but in that
last rioting which took this crummy town, the place
was overrun with looters dropping off their goods.
They left things there a while, went out again for
more, and later came and took it all away - one by
one and piece by piece. Now all these shacks in the
fenlands, even the junkiest ones, have new TVs and
grand refrigerators and the people wear shirts and
collars. Yes. Good? But the cemetery's been left
a wreck, and we must all re-bury the dead. I
guess if God was a pauper, he'd be
living here too, Mary Lou.