Epitaph - Mitchell Coots
Keeps Death's Spectre Away
Here lies the clay of Mitchell Coots,
Whose feet yet occupy his boots.
His soul has gone— we know not where
It landed, neither do we care.
He slipped the joker up his sleeve
With vile intention to deceive,
And when detected, tried to jerk
His gun, but didn't get his work
In with sufficient swiftness, which
Explains the presence here of Mitch.
At Gabriel's trump, if he should wake,
He'll mighty likely try to take
The trump with that same joker he
Had sleeved so surreptitiously,
And which we placed upon his bier
When we concealed his body here.
Unger, Frederick William. Epitaphs. Philadelphia: The Penn Publishing Co. 1905.