Goodness knows where they will bury me, – in their own grave yard I suppose, two feet deep in a painted coffin. There will be no mourners, and no rejoicers either, which seems sadder still, for the Burmese celebration of a funeral with music & gambling is nicer than our beastly mummeries. But if there were anyone here whose hand could form the letters, I would [like] him to carve this on the bark of some great peepul tree above my head.
Died of Drink 1927.
“Here lies the bones of poor John Flory;
His story was the old, old story.
Money, women, cards & gin
Were the four things that did him in.
He has spent sweat enough to swim in
Making love to stupid women;
He has known misery past thinking
In the dismal art of drinking.
O stranger, as you voyage here
And read this welcome, shed no tear;
But take the single gift I give,
And learn from me how not to live.”
Notes interlinear addition  custom of celebrating  seems  interlinear addition  editorial addition  bed  married
Peter Davison, from the Complete Works
Written 1926-1930?, handwritten in ink on reverse of Government of Burma paper, CW 71. Preliminary sketch for Burmese Days