Now is the bitterest moment for my bones.
Battered at Bosworth, they were lying lean,
at peace with worm and clod until the itch
for fame and gold began to goad his heart,
that clawing academic toad, the very face
of rude and callous. Yes, I hear him now,
like Madeleine of the coffin, I can
feel the chunk chunk of shovels pry into
what I had called my little world made cold.
The rattling grows, the worms and denizens
of mold and rot are fleeing from my skull!
For they can hear the tortured syllables.
And there they are! Those massive fleshy faces!
The women dressed like men! Oh, let me lie!
Let me lie at peace--by all the Holy Graces!
Too late! Too late! What use was there to die?
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