These living bodies that we wear
that in a new dress we appear
destined for the skipper in the sky
pale the shade in our veins
Entombed with a white bouquet
so fast we wither in our grave
catching the early worms
in our darken maze
As we sleep in our coffin deep
free from the flesh at last
no part remains a selfsame part
but the pain is gone
Let him who loves you think instead
you undressed first and went to bed
with a toddy of strychnine
as angels sang, "Auld Lang Syne"
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