A Caller

"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'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 don'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 don'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."