’Tis rare, but just now
I feel . . . rather sad,
not from what I see
before me, yet from
what I do foresee
coming round the bend,
the end of good health,
start of practicing
the finest of arts:
withering away.
Ah, it’s here . . . it’s now,
thus I do rehearse
while I await, with
patience, my own hearse.
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