The Epitaph


Here rests his head upon a Tennis Pill,
A youth, to Fortune lost, from Ping-Pong flown;
Fair Science smiled not nor his head did fill,
But Table-Tennis marked him for her own.

Red was his visage and his form was small,
But in the great game did he show much skill;
He gave to us all the possessed – a ball;
We laughed to think he’d put us in his will.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
For he is gone, and safe from earthly harm;
He may, in Ping-Pong, Peter’s faults expose;
More likely – No, that place is much too warm!