from Two Poems, After A. E. Housman

What, still alive at twenty-two,

A clean upstanding chap like you?
Why, if your throat is hard to slit,

Slit your girl’s and swing for it!
Like enough you won’t be glad

When they come to hang you, lad,
But bacon’s not the only thing

That’s cured by hanging from a string.
When the blotting pad of night

Sucks the latest drop of light,
Lads whose job is still to do

Shall whet their knives and think of you.
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