“Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well.”
Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
He entered that serene assassin's cell
And 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,” said Goldenson, “I can n'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 do n'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 Mamikellikiller coldly sneered:
“O, so you do n'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.”