As I Lay Me Down to Death (from Ich bin Gregor Samsa! Ich bin Gregor Samsa!)

If I were ninety years of age

living off my children’s wage

with nothing left to ascertain

I would prepare to go insane.

I’d drink absinth every night

and wince not once at its hard bite.

I’d turn my pen and tear my page

if I were ninety years of age.

A fortnight ‘fore my final fall

I’d dream of the apostle Paul

He’d tell me how my days are priced,

of the acumen of his Lord Christ.

“Your path is wretched,” he will shout.

“Admit your sin, and force it out!”

He’d thusly force me to enthrall

a fortnight ‘fore my final fall.

And once, at last, I find the light

by death of mobs or alder blight,

perhaps gone crazy from the drink

last sipped beside a button pink.

I’d say, “Oh! god, ye’ve come for me!”

And he’d respond so pleasantly,

“You’ve lived your life, you needn’t fight.

Now slowly step into the light.”