When I first came to Spoon River I did not know whether what they told me Was true or false.
They would bring me an epitaph And stand around the shop while I worked And say "He was so kind," "He was wonderful," "She was the sweetest woman," "He was a consistent Christian." And I chiseled for them whatever they wished,
All in ignorance of its truth.
But later, as I lived among the people here,
I knew how near to the life Were the epitaphs that were ordered for them when they died.
But still I chiseled whatever they paid me to chisel And made myself party to the false chronicles Of the stones,
Even as the historian does who writes Without knowing the truth,
Or because he is influenced to hide it.
