(To the tune of the Unfortunate Rake)
I started to read about history
To learn about the people there,
The words were lying on the pages,
So cold, so crisp, so spare.
The words, they told me stories,
"Honor the past," they said,
"It's been trivialized enough."
But I wanted to study the Dead.
I went down to make me an outfit,
Clothes to show that I care
But saw the bright shiny objects
Which is how I wound up here.
To my left stood Mistress Laurel Seamchecker,
And her eyes were blood-shot red;
She turned to the crowd around her,
These are the words that she said:
Let them go, let them go, God bless them;
Whoever they once were
You can search the wide world over
And not find more accurate than me.
Oh, when I die, please bury me
In my most accurate gown and hat;
Put my hand-made shoes on my feet
So my friends'll be green-eyed about that.
Get six scholars to carry my coffin
Have six seamstresses sing me a song
Each of them carry a bunch of laurel.
To make a smell as they bear me along.
Somewhere I've lost my history
On my efforts I think I'll snooze
And if anyone should ask you just tell them
I've got the authenticity blues