 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
298
A CALLER
“Good morning; are you 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?”
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.”
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.”
“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?”
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?”
299
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.”
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.”
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |