<i>Epitaph</i> <br /> <br />Here there lies, and sleeps in the grave, <br />One whom Love killed with his scorn, <br />A poor little scholar in every way, <br />He was named François Villon. <br />He never reaped a morsel of corn: <br />Willed all away, as all men know: <br />Bed, table, and basket all are gone. <br />Gallants, now sing his song below: <br /> <br /><i>Rondeau</i> <br /> <br />Oh, grant him now eternal peace, <br />Lord, and everlasting light, <br />He wasn't worth a candle bright, <br />Nor even a sprig of parsley. <br />Of eyebrows, hair, and beard he's free, <br />A turnip scraped with a spade, all right: <br />Oh, grant him now eternal peace. <br /> <br />Exiled with strict severity, <br />Rapped behind with a spade, despite <br />It all he cried: ‘Appeal, for me!' <br />- Which wasn't the height of subtlety. <br />Oh, grant him now eternal peace.<br /><br />François Villon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/le-testament-epitaph-et-rondeau/
