The murdered sun leaves our accursed sky
To makes its mark. As I set, so shall I.
Even as I cease to be
I beg you, while you can, be as you are:
You will miss it when, at your brief hour,
Both this and you are gone.
The last dance, at the floor-stained, teary
Death of the party, is always a slow one.
So while the music plays, dance playfully,
For there’ll be quiet enough once this is done.