Epitaph

The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.

I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.

They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.

And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.

by Dorothy Parker

Comments (2)

A poem for someone lying in a grave- epitaph. Written in jest supposedly by the 'dead' body - describing how it looks from her grave point of view. Crafty and witty as always with a cutting last line.! 0+++
I wonder what the poems' connotation is? Can anyone help me?