"Here lies John Doe," the inscription said
On the stone they placed at John Doe's head.
The grass and the flowers were fragrant and sweet
That grew at the bottom of John Doe's feet.
Then after a while, the weather erased
The letters that on the stone had been traced.
The grass grew wild, the flowers' seeds
Were pushed aside by the roots of weeds.
That someone was buried here passersby knew,
But after so many years, they didn't know who.
The mind abhors a vacuum, and so
They'd point and say, "There lies some poor John Doe."
People's memory of you, their memory of me,
Stones notwithstanding, aren't likely to be
As long as their memory of Mrs. Doe's son,
Who died with a name that could fit anyone.