Time, this Norn's born moiré,
deigns my death, this bout
'Nigh end.'

Her buss, my bane –
her fiendish jagging to pith my name
for poesy...
with iron nib
my misery –
this mutt's ague,
incessantly – aught; my sin-nish hajj
for innards of Doyen, an onerous ploy...
speculated
in the murmur of faun
nearest Nero's amok.

And, Why?...
"I favor 'la dolce vita,'"
with her iliacced-palm,
eyes lining through kohl.

So, I write my obit
as Time bash this—rotting bio-me
'Raja of joshes, of tomtits with figs,
and leis of netted ivy.'