“Good morning; you are looking very well,”
Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
And entering a fat assassin’s cell,
He hung his hat and coat upon a nail.
“I think that life in this secluded spot
Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?”
“Well, yes,” was the reply, “I can’t complain:
Life anywhere—provided it is mine—
Agrees with me; but I observe with pain
That still the people murmur and repine.
It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt,
To see a persecuted man grow stout.”
“O no, ’tis not your growing stout,” said Death,
“Which makes these malcontents complain and scold;
They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath.
What they object to is your growing old.
And—though indifferent to lean or fat—
I don’t myself entirely favor that.”
With brows that met above the orbs beneath,
And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared,
And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth,
The pampered butcher glacially sneered:
“O, so you don’t! Well, how will you assuage
Your spongy passion for the blood of age?”
Death with a clattering convulsion drew
His coat on, hatted his unmeated pow,
Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through,
Turned and made answer: “I will show you how.
I’m going to the Bench you call Supreme
And tap the old women who sit there and dream.”