� 2001-2006 by Shiloh
�
Part of my headache is I cannot get the line height on this new layout ta work without messin' up the line spacing. Seems I cannot have them both; it's either one or the other. I guess I can live without the line height.
I have three topics on my mind again, but it's still a toss up as to which one will be chosen today. *sits and thinks a minute*
Ok. Here's some bizarre humor more fitting for O' Hallow's Eve than Thanksgiving, but they're recent emails Dad's gotten from his friend at work...
In a Thurmont, Maryland cemetery:
Here lies an Athiest
All dressed up and no place to go
In a London, England cemetary:
Here lies Ann Mann,
Who lived an old maid
But died an old Mann
(* Glad my last name ain't Mann; I might die an old maid too, then I'd be an old Mann when I die.)
In a Ribbesford, England cemetery:
Anna Wallace
The children of Israel wanted bread,
And the Lord sent them manna
Old clerk Wallace wanted a wife,
And the Devil sent him Anna
In Ruidoso, New Mexico cemetery:
Here lies Johnny Yeast
Pardon me for not rising
In a Uniontown, Pennsylvania cemetery:
Here lies the body of Jonathon Blake
Stepped on the gas
Instead of the break
In a Silver City, Nevada cemetery:
Here lays the Kid
We planted him raw
He was quick on the trigger
But slow on the draw
A lawyer's (or should we say barrister's?) epitaph in England:
Sir John Strange
Here lies an honest lawyer
And that is Strange
John Penny's epitaph in the Wimborne, England cemetery:
Reader, if cash thou art
In want of any,
Dig 6 feet deep;
And thou wilt find a Penny
In a cemetry in Hartscombe, England:
On the 22nd of June,
Jonathan Fiddle went out of tune
On a grave from the 1880s in Nantucket, Massachusetts:
Under the sod and under the trees,
Lies the body of Jonathan Pease
He is not here, there's only the pod
Pease shelled out and went to God
In a cemetery in England:
Remember man, as you walk by,
As you are now, so once was I
As I am now, you soon will be
Prepare yourself and follow me
To which someone replied by writing on the tombstone: "To follow you I'll not consent
Until I know which way you went."
From Boot Hill in Tombstone, Arizona:
Here lies Lester Moore
One slug from a .44
No Les
No MoreI thought--and still do--these were pretty weird when I first read them. Some are mean, I think, like Anna Wallace's. Makes me wonder if she was really a shrew or a witch. These also reminded me of the times when Sandy and I would go for fresh air and a walk (as exercise for her) through the nearby cemetery. We had our route and a section of graves we made certain to pass so we could "say" hello to the people. It's funny, we never knew the people, but we began to feel like they were our people. Those were good times.
*thinks* I think I'll save the other email for tomorrow, even though it goes along with these epitaphs. I'm just tired of typying. Ta-ta.
|
moon phase |
