Aubade
I’m out of work and can’t afford to drink.
Waking at five, a while before the dawn,
I look out through the window east and think
Grim, dreary thoughts of being dead and gone.
For all I know my pillow may tonight
Receive my head for the last time. It’s right
To face death squarely — yes, I’ll kick the bucket,
Be food for worms or flames, an absence, nil.
But why go on and fill
Fifty lines with death-dread? Pointless. Fuck it.
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