I should think that when I die
My tired soul would give a sigh
Fight atrophy to squint an eye
A crooked smile, his last goodbye
And I should think that when I’m dead
That there’d be nothing in my head
A hollowed shell; the maggots fed
Not sentiment; the truth instead
And you, yes you, will someday soon
You cannot break what death has hewn
There is no hope; no whispered boon
To save you from its raspy croon
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