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8 ars longa, vita Brevis Now that I’ve reached the age when I stumble up the stage for my job-concluding pin every evening out’s a chore Looking forward to my gin I think with resigned regret as I trip the final step my vita’s not so brevis any more Mortúus my youthful storms all melancholy gone those clouds are sucked away on soundtracks of Marianne and Eleanor Rigby dreams I remember a ribbon on the floor but what were my girl friends’ names? My sweetheart isn’t Mavis anymore America rolls like a pig in dirty oil and gore My country my pig I shout to the stars whose blinking snouts and planetary snuffles uproot the universe as they gather galactic truffles . . . My mentis isn’t compos any more Looking around the world why do I feel so gay when I’m not gay at all 9 A martini’s not strong enough to block the world’s fat fist so what’s the olive for and the lemon’s bitter twist? My gravitas curls groveling on the floor I dream of my old aunts still bending over their cards Nana and Lizzie and Lil They pressed me against their hearts I could hardly get my breath Then they shooed me out the door to my certain death: My vita’s not so brevis any more ...

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