A Rake Ponders on His Mortality

Will I die,

Like a drunken fool

Falling off a bar stool?

Or will I

Be found dead in bed

In an empty room

Where cheap perfume

Lingers on stiffening fingers?

 

Will I die

As an old rake

Who did partake

In fleeting play?

 

 

There is no bliss

In death’s hard kiss,

Merely clay

Where rake and saint

Together stay.