This is a paltry pain-
one where you may stagger on and on
to your foolish life’s end
without some serene pause to suture wounds
or even take some soothing pity sigh
to let each vice unbend.
It is that slip,
the sneaking plea and flick of eyes,
when the sickness tempests your mind.
It is in all crude manners:
an odd habit dashed upon the rocks,
so friends may gape or laugh at your disgrace,
laid rough and bleeding.
It’s heavy to say that
this sickness ends in death,
with sweet sleep’s balm cast eternal-
but when clamoured in the coffin
you end a voyage infernal.
