Finis

Uncharmed by the bloom of fresh roses white, I shall with the mute prop of unspeaking sticks, Like a bored mollusk loathe my slowing walks; And pine for eternal still with wee cursing clicks. Uninspired by thrills of chart-topping songs, And no longer revived by their lisping beats, And aided by sad hammers and rioting tongs, I soon shall fault all Earth and her tepid treats. Not fresh world's trending fashion’s catalogues, Nor its luring vogues in their cyclic monologues, Shall this last pilgrim's going even slightly delay; All men’s warmth unwanted obstacle in my way. Thievish night's erstwhile dreaded gloom Shan’t prove such a feared quieting tomb, For her dusky shroud may better warmth Spell than all sluttish breath's jaded cloth. I’ll gradually disdain these slow-turning rounds, And slowly uninterestedly rise to stiller grounds.