Your wit may dazzle all New York,

Your songs with passion burn,

But, like the dullest nerds in town,

You're headed for an urn.

If you don't make, while time permits,

Provisions for yourself,

Your case -- indeed, your urn -- may end

Upon a lawyer's shelf.

Liz Smith (the columnist) has told

A story grim and dark

About a girl named Parker who

Can't find a place to park.

Among the famed Algonquin wits,

She made a great sensation,

But that was not enough to save

Poor Dorothy from cremation.

The ashes were collected back

In Nineteen Sixty-Seven

While all the rest of her arose

(Presumably) to heaven,

But Dorothy forgot to say,

While looking toward her end

Just where her ashes should be kept

When she went round the bend.

And so, Liz Smith revealed today

Having gone through the fire,

The ashes were entrusted to

Attorney Paul O'Dwyer,

Who wants to find a final home,

Sheltered from life's grim clashes,

Where well-earned rest may settle on

The clever lady's ashes.

A certain insecurity,

A grim, determined air,

Made Parker's writing style unique

And gave her verse its flair,

But even for a bard who sang

Despair and suicide

And disillusion's bitter taste

And pitfalls for our pride,

Absurdity can go too far,

And that is now the case.

A Wall Street office should not be

This writer's resting place.

A monument outlasting bronze

Would match her deathless wit,

But failing that, at least she needs

A sheltered place to sit.

So someone call O'Dwyer please,

While controversy rages.

His number should be listed in

Manhattan's Yellow Pages.