The air smells of soil,
Whisky, and snuff;
I’m looking at you
But you are no longer there.
Your features forever twisted into that cheeky grin;
Do they look like wet red dogs?
Is that what you smile about?
What do you smile about?
Your eyes are sockets,
Thorns prick at your neck still,
And your alabaster skin leathered and weathered to dust.
Oh Atropos, you mule!
Were your shears dull, they might have tugged at Lachesis’ thread a bit further!
The earth breathes again,
Muse, your presence is unwelcome—
Unrepentant celestial body, does your flicker warm the castes below;
But not this fool and all his wealth,
Nor his poor fool friend.
—the worms must be having a feast!