In the spirit of, I suppose, spirits (Halloween does approach swiftly after all), here's more memorial poems from Isabel Valle.
She meant well.
Mary was a lovely lamb
Until she grew big horns
And turned into a rowdy ram,—
Her mistress for her mourns!
If only sweet pig babies
Need not grow up at all!
Oh, butcher mills grind swiftly
And they grind exceeding small!
(!!?! - curator)
I have given my heart to this dog to tear*
And he will not let it go!
He has taken it off to the Land of Where
Past the Desert Whither Ho!
Thou quaint musician,
At the roots of things,
Ended thy mission,
Broken thy strings.
(okay, this one isn't all that bad - curator)
*I think Kipling used this first...and better
Valle, I. (1916). Epitaphs of some dear dumb beasts. Boston [Mass.]: The Gorham Press. 20-21, 24, 40