If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay—- —-Ben King "If I Should Die" (1857-1894) I was the diener on duty when they brung him. Mr Lincoln lie flat on his back and they come round, The doctors looking upon his corpse. The certificate been writ. But they come look anyway, And they eyes dark as holes in the ground, They mouths quivering, sad somebody Shot him and the terribles come over Them faint. They sad hearts Like a pack of dogs yapping At the scent of horses. The torn flesh too much to look upon, And dripping on the floor, The blood and tears. Such savage blows took him And slay the life from his bones. The blood I thought was mine. And sudden burst out his chest A wind, a storm blew, His soul sprang up And lifted the room. Swept out and rang the church bells, Spun the weather vanes atop The schools and broke the windows In the theatre where it all happened. Startled the dark, rumbled off Through the state of Virginia, Knocking down fence posts And blowing out candles for miles. The doctors knowing of such things And not being surprised none the least, Stepped back, momentarily courteous In their esteem for the dead, Closed upon him when the wind died, Not one put on notice At the phenomenon. There being great mystery Upon each dead person visited, And why not this one? A horrid black landscape the sinews, And unusual works of the intestines, Turns and twists beneath and around, Spun through him like any creature Caught by time or hunted. The quarry of the mad man. I began to ache like a dead man. There was a fever in me, But when I touched his hand Cold and frost covered me From head to foot. The coldest fire ablaze Inside me broke. That world too far for me to know. The unfolding of his flesh, The pain of it that strange. Later that night they come And wake me and asked me To stand him down. He been embalmed, pretty quick. Remove him to the lower quarters. Lay him in the coffin. He weighed about three ton. I wrestle him from off the block. I pulled and shoved him, He pulled and shoved me back like the dead Always do on account they don't like it. His limp arms and neck, they fall back. They curl around me. He grunt. I carry him down the stairs. He know me. He opened his eyes. Look at me and say them sad soft words In my ear that make me feel so lonely. I dress him up. I pretty up his face. All pink rouge, smidgen of charcoal, Touch off his cheeks and lilac-scented Sprinkle, daub, rub him to life. Dress him in that Sunday black suit, Button it up, straighten his tie, Shine his shoes, trim his beard, A little, not too much, Just off the sideburns. His ghostly stillness In that mule-drawn wagon Moved the country.© Ernest Slyman
Originally appeared in Yggdrasil