In my sleep it rips throughmy meagre skinthrows off the red bandage of the fleshand goes strolling through the roommy monument a little incompleteone can be prodigalwith tears and bloodwhat will endure here the longestmust be thoughtfully provided...
With crow bones all the land is white,
From the gates of morn to the gates of night
Picked clean, they lie on the cumbered ground,
And the politician's paunch is round;
Said Mr
Smith, “I really
Tell you,
Dr
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways