Author: Epitaph Page 16

Here lies Groucho Marx and Lies and Lies and Lies

Epitaphs

Here lies Charles. Had six guns Needed seven. Now he is in heaven

Epitaphs

She did what she could. Not Goodbye, but au revoir. In loving memory of My Dear Wife Annie Edith Faithfull (1877–1954)

Epitaphs

Beneath the stone, a lump of clay, lies the man called Peter Hannels, who early in the month of May, took off his winter flannels.

Epitaphs

Close behind this stone Here lies alone Captain Reynolds Marvin Expecting his wife When ends her life. And we both are freed from sarvin',

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of Richard Thomas, an Englishman by birth, a Whig of '76 – a Cooper by trade, now food for worms. Like an old rum puncheon whose staves are all marked and numbered he will be raised and put together again by his Maker.

Epitaphs

Here doth lye the bodie – Of John Flye, who did die – By a stroke from a sky-rocket – Which hit him on the eye-socket.

Epitaphs

This Ain’t Bad _____ Once You Get Used To It

Epitaphs

DOUBT – Martha Mae “Take the back roads!” • Bill – “It’s five o’clock somewhere!”

Epitaphs

On this marble drop a tear — Here lies poor Rosalind: All mankind were pleas'd with her, And she with all mankind.

Epitaphs

Sacred to twins Charlie and Varlie. Sons of loving parents who died in infancy.

Epitaphs

Here lies the body of Elred. At least he will be when he is dead. But now at this time he's still alive, 14th August '65.

Epitaphs

Fair maiden Lilliard – lies under this stane – little was her stature – but muckle was her fame – upon the English loons – she laid monie thumps – and when her legs were cuttit off – she fought upon her stumps.

Epitaphs

Here lies entombed one Roger Morton, whose sudden death was early brought on; trying one day his corn to mow off, the razor slipped and cut his toe off. The toe, or rather what it grew to, an inflammation quickly flew to; the parts they took to mortifying, And poor dear Roger took to dying.

Epitaphs

Buried here beneath this clay lies gardener John Arbothnaut Jay. Now in his simpeternal home, a constant source of high-grade loam.

Epitaphs

Although this stone may moulder into dust, yet Joseph Moodey's name continue must

Epitaphs

I bowl'd, I struck, I caught, I stopp'd. Sure life's a game of cricket; I block'd with care, with caution popp'd, yet Death has hit my wicket.

Epitaphs

Poems and Epitaphs are but stuff – Here lies Zed Blacksword – that’s enough

Epitaphs

Here lies my corpse who was the man, That lov'd a sop in dripping pan, But now believe me I am dead, Now here the pan stands at my head, Still for sop to the last I cry'd, But could not eat and so I died, My neighbours they perhaps may laugh, When they do read my epitaph.

Epitaphs

Here lies a lewd Fellow, who, while he drew Breath, In the Midst of his Life was in Quest of his Death; Which he quickly obtain'd for it cost him his Life, For being in Bed with another Man's Wife.

Epitaphs

On the 22nd of June. Jonathan Fiddle Went out of tune.

Epitaphs