When men get old and tired

and have no more to say,

we’ll cut them up in ribbons

and sail them down the way.

On to the brimming waterfalls

where heaven droops to meet,

they’ll love with renewed innocence

and fall down on their feet.

O take, take up their anger,

use it to lever the dead.

Love, love with your appetites,

be a servant when you take her to bed.

O buy a tray of silver and thow it in the sea,

kiss, kiss your favourites, but run your way back to me.

I’ll take the ribbons of the dead,

and trail a track in rhyme,

they’ll hear about us in the air,

though we’ll be old this time.

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