A Victorian Cemetery
Bony skeletons in coffinwood,
some of them bad, some of them good,
all of them silent, stretched out straight,
hope to get in at Heaven’s Gate.
Some had breasts to drive men wild
or (more important) to feed a child;
some had redhead cocks, to crow;
now they lie there, row by row.
Everything soft has drained away,
hard and simple till Judgment Day
they lie still in their mouldered shrouds,
under the sun and rain and clouds.