Damn, you all are good! What a hoot.
One Interrogative—
To be or not to—Be—
Revolves in my astounded Brain
Like Immortality—
To Die—may be to Sleep—
To sleep to Dream—perhaps—
With Poppies—Death may courtly come—
Or Manacles—and Whips—
And there’s the Hitch—the Fear
His Horses’ Heads—may go
To where I would not Be—if I
Should fly the Ills—I know—
And so—the Will—is numb—
And Conscience sealed—with Lead—
Because no Traveler ever leaves
The Country of the—Dead—
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