  OVER the sobs of mourners, Over the cry of pain, Where men gather with bloodless faces To search for the mangled slain, The sound of my mocking laughter In the silence is loud and clear; What do I care for corpses, Since I am a Jokeleteer? While the heart of the nation pulses In sympathy with woe, While the living claim their dead ones Who lie in a ghastly row, Into the weeping faces With a pitiless glance I peer, As I merrily crack my wheezes, For I am a Jokeleteer. While strong men reel and sicken, And their eyes grow dim and red, My poor little brains I cudgel For a joke about the dead. I’ve a jest for a man’s last moments, A pun for his open bier, And a jape for the Day of Judgment, For I am a Jokeleteer. |
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