DESCANT ON JUVENAL
Those teeth may sparkle, but the eye stays dull;
smooth out the skin, the better to see the skull;
the mouth has gone, though lips contrive to pout;
scarlet-painted claws remove all doubt.
A regular taste of nothing from a spoon
and eternity's arrived, a little soon.
Now look at them dancing, cheek to hollow cheek!
She walks on air; her partner springs a leak.
Too pessimistic? There is worse to come -
grimmer than vacancy or mucky bum -
when dementia's sorted and existence without fear
or appetite, continues, year on year -
no hope, no struggle, failure, or success -
just incurable, epidemic endlessness.
Being dead is not experienced, as such,
so why are we afraid of it so much?
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