When you visit Tombstone, Arizona, be careful not to get into a gunfight. There’s a famous cemetery in Tombstone called Boot Hill, where cowpokes who lost gunfights are buried. Visiting Boot Hill, I noticed a gravestone with this epitaph:
Here lies Lester Moore.
Four slugs from a 44.
Clever, but not the most elegant poem. However, it does get the point across: Lester Moore isn’t around any more. He was shot four times. Now he’s dead and buried in this grave.
This morbid fact got me thinking about the challenge of writing epitaphs. What if someone named Sam Shay smoked six packs of cigarettes a day? (That’s almost as stupid as visiting Tombstone and getting into a gunfight, isn’t it?) And, what if Sam Shay’s family asked you to write a clever epitaph?
It’s a lot easier than you think. Want to give it a try? Okay, try finishing the unfinished epitaph below.
Here lies Sam Shay
Smoked six packs a day.
He started smoking when he was (any number from 1-10).
Here are two examples of how you could end this poem:
He started smoking when he was five.
Now that fool is not alive.
He started smoking when he was ten.
Now he’ll never smoke again.
Once you have tried all the other numbers from one to ten, see if you can find a new way to end this poem. Here’s what I came up with:
His last request was one more puff.
I guess he’s finally smoked enough.
Now that you are really warmed up, try writing a new smoker’s epitaph. Change the smoker’s name and see what you can do.
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