Originally posted by whodey
Do us all a favor and throw one of your nephews on the fire, it's getting chilly in here.
Remember, imbeciles and wits,
sots and ascetics, fair and foul,
young girls with little tender tits,
that DEATH is written over all.
Worn hides that scarcely clothe the soul
they are so rotten, old and thin,
or firm and soft and warm and full—
fellmonger Death gets every skin.
All that is piteous, all that’s fair,
all that is fat and scant of breath,
Elisha’s baldness, Helen’s hair,
is Death’s collateral:
... our doom
is, to be sifted by the wind,
heaped up, smoothed down like silly sands.
We are less permanent than thought.
From Villon by Basil Bunting