Moirologist

The moirologists will sing of the loneliness of the living, of the horrors of death, of the black earth, and the cold dreary frozen Hades; and, in the strange language of hyperbole, in which they love to indulge, they will wonder how the sun could venture to shine on so lamentable a scene as the one before them.

Even as recently as the early 1900s, there was a report of a moirologists' strike in Paris.

Cancel the eulogies and send the moirologists home. We don’t need them just yet. It turns out the death of the Columbus art scene was an exaggeration after all.

You simply have to imagine the sad baby is wailing on your behalf, expressing the grief and despair you have buried deep, deep within yourself. Somewhat akin to an infant moirologist. It vents for we cannot, due to society's scorn.