Over the sobs of mourners,
Over the cry of pain,
Where men gather with bloodless faces
To search for the mangled slain,
The sound of my mocking laughter
In the silence is loud and clear;
What do I care for corpses,
Since I am a Jokeleteer?
While the heart of the nation pulses
In sympathy with woe,
While the living claim their dead ones
Who lie in a ghastly row,
Into the weeping faces
With a pitiless glance I peer,
As I merrily crack my wheezes,
For I am a Jokeleteer.
While strong men reel and sicken,
And their eyes grow dim and red,
My poor little brains I cudgel
For a joke about the dead.
I’ve a jest for a man’s last moments,
A pun for his open bier,
And a jape for the Day of Judgment,
For I am a Jokeleteer.