1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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