When Azrael* comes knocking, it won’t be with bony fists,
I believe, he’ll be a Doctor, with a cure,
Or a Maiden with her posies, a Knight jousting in the lists,
Or a gently whistling, mournful Troubadour.
When my time has come for leaving, I believe, I’ll punch him out,
Though I’ll break my hand in doing it, I’m sure
Or...
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