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 | The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown |  |
321
There was in that house; and Christy Quirk,
The Coroner, comin' and the inquest arrim,
And everybody on the farrim
Callin' there: and couldn' agree
For temporal insanity;
But just it was pison, pison—what's
The name of that pison they're given to rots?
But by whose hand administered—
Minis, minis—that's the word—
I think so. Well, they couldn' say;
So to bury the body anyway,
And service over it all right—
And so they did, but late at night.
| The Collected Poems of T. E. Brown | |