Author: Epitaph Page 19

Here lies Johnny Cole. Who died upon my soul after eating a plentiful dinner. While chewing his crust he was turned into dust with his crimes undigested – poor sinner.

Epitaphs

His faults are buried with him beneath this stone. His virtues (if he had any) are remembered by his friends.

Epitaphs

I was Carolina Born – and Carolina bred – and here I lay – Carolina dead!

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

I'm in on a plot.

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

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Tears cannot restore her –– therefore I weep.

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In memory of Henry Wang, son of his, Father and mother, John and Maria Wang. Died Dec. 31st 1829 … The first deposit of this yard.

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Grim Death To Please His Palate Has Taken My Lettice To Put in His Sallat.

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Uncle Walter Loved To Spend. He Had No Money in the End. But with Many a Whiskey and Many a Wife, He Really Did Enjoy His Life.

Epitaphs

Here I lie, snuck as a bug in a rug – Two rows down in same cemetery – Here I lie, snugger than that other bugger

Epitaphs

To the Memory of Clement Gillman (1882-1946) who led a commonsense and therefore happy life because he stubbornly refused to be bamboozled by his female relations, by his scientific friends and by the rulers spiritual and secular of the society into which without his consent he was born.

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He looked for gold and died of lead poison

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When I was in the military, they gave me a medal for killing two men and a discharge for loving one.

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Here lies my wife, here lies she; Hallelujah! Hallelujee!

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Here lies the body of Arkansas Jim. We made the mistake, but the joke's on him.

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Here lies Salvino Armalo D'Armati of Florence, the inventor of spectacles. May God pardon his sins!

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Here lies poor Ned Pardon, from misery freed, Who long was a bookseller's hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll ever come back.

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

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Praises on tombs are trifles vainly spent; a man's good name is his best monument.

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I've finally stopped getting dumber.

Epitaphs