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what miserable beast clambers from the womb
whose tabor form is accompanied merrily by death
who miserly deigns to count the days leading to our tomb
and leave a man bare all but hope, bereft
like standing in the shadow of the darkest noon
on the loudest day the trumpet's judgement blare
dull sound to the deafening of that ticking veiled hand
the hand that counts and measures and weighs
Rejoice the red right hand let loose
And off in the distance hoof beats like a familiar tune
to find want the day of final doom.