No wonder he turned to poetry next.
He rhymed with infinite skill;
Shakespearean sonnets were his best,
But nobody published him still.

It finally came, his lucky break,
His hand was shaking and yet,
He scribbled a line for eternity's sake,
An instant before he fell dead.

Published on stone for ages to come,
He is an author, at last!
His ultimate work is skillfully done.
Read it and cry, if you must:

Here lies the author of this epitaph.