A Chronicle

Once--but no matter when--
There lived--no matter where--
A man, whose name--but then
I need not that declare.

He--well, he had been born,
And so he was alive;
His age--I details scorn--
Was somethingty and five.

He lived--how many years
I truly can't decide;
But this one fact appears:
He lived--until he died.

"He died," I have averred,
But cannot prove 'twas so,
But that he was interred,
At any rate, I know.

I fancy he'd a son,
I hear he had a wife:
Perhaps he'd more than one,
I know not, on my life!

But whether he was rich,
Or whether he was poor,
Or niether--both--or which,
I cannot say, I'm sure.

I can't recall his name,
Or what he used to do:
But then--well, such is fame!
'Twill so serve me and you.

And that is why I thus
About this unknown man
Would fain create a fuss,
To rescue, if I can.

From dark oblivion's blow,
Some record of his lot:
But, ah! I do not know
Who--where--when--why--or what.
Moral

In this brief pedigree
A moral we should find--
But what it ought to be
Has quite escaped my mind!
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