SILAS SLATE

(Part 4 of a poem for Herbert F. West)

Epitaph is my profession.

Silas Slate is my name.

Someone else is my fame In twenty taps of the chisel.

Forgive my spelling, forgive my grammar, Forgive my bread and butter English Since no summary can be perfect.

No two people know the same man.

So if you agree or disagree with me, Understand this has been thought of him:

'You were the quintessential American.

Honied cider, optimistic grouch, That mix of Eureka and damn! Your death has no end Who shook a mind with every hand.'