Poor Julius Fred,
No longer anxious to wed;
A celebratory life once led,
Now, a mixer with the ill-bred,
His eyes, a darker red!
Home goes back to the queerest bed:
Stopper of good use of the best head;
A drift to fatal coma he’d dread,
His life’s yoke heavier than lead.
From his table vanished, the true bread.
And from his memory, the times...
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