It seems that they're all falling like flies,
Who knows what belies
The tales they tell
Of those not well.
And then somebody dies!
For when they were alive, when they would resist
The temptation to make promises
That disappear in the mist
No promises made, none to be broken
An empty hand, no token.
To die, then who is left ?
Not the most bereft
Who each night try to lay themselves to rest.
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