A Caller + 

“Good morning; you are 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?” + 

“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.” + 

“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.” + 

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?” + 

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.” + 