What, still alive at twenty-two,
A clean, upstanding chap like you?
Sure, if your throat 'tis 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.
.
So, when the spilt ink of the night
Spreads o'er the blotting-pad of light,
Lads whose job is still to do
Shall whet their knives, and think of you.
- Hugh Kingsmill
----
I never see that prettiest thing—
A cherry bough gone white with Spring—
But what I think, "How gay t'would be
To hang me from a flowering tree.
- Dorothy Parker
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