(The acid wit of Ambrose Bierce wasn't only present in his prose -- but evident in his collections of poetry. DaRK PaRTY presents two of our favorites.) A Nightmare Dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: The world remembered gratefully that I Had lived and written, although other names Once hailed with homage, had in turn to die.
Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, My substance fed its growth. From many lands Men came in troops that noble tree to view.
'Twas sacred to my memory and fame-- But Julian Hawthorne's wittol daughter came And with untidy finger daubed upon Its bark a reeking record of her name.
In Congress once great Mowther shone, Debating weighty matters; Now into an asylum thrown, He vacuously chatters.
If in that legislative hall His wisdom still he'd vented, It never had been known at all That Mowther was demented.