LITTLE CLARA
You’ve
one foot in the grave, little Clara, little dear;
You
have to take great care, be aware, do you hear?
You’re
far too young to leave and bereave those who care,
So
pinch your nose and slap your cheeks to get some color there.
But
mother, I care not for the suns of this world.
My
one foot in the grave now has more fun than any girl.
It
dances with the black beetles scutting to and fro
And
I cannot think of any cause to stay instead of go.
My
sweetest chick, your arms grow limp, your eyes sink to pools.
Your
skin is thin as paper and you look a fearsome ghoul.
Come
back to us, don’t languish there upon your bed!
Don’t
wallow any longer or you’ll soon be dead.
Oh
mother, all the skeletons, they count my toes!
And
it tickles like the greenest grass that ever grows.
What
funhouse waits for me beneath the earth and stone?
I
want it now; I cannot wait until I’ve grown.
Foolish
child! Your whims are sins; you love not those
Who’ve
upended all their lives to shape the end you chose.
Your
days turn night; your soul takes flight; I hope you see
That
you’ve carved yourself a coffin for eternity.
One
foot follows fast the first—mother this is far from worst!—
Now
my legs, my trunk, my arms, my fingers one through ten.
Only
now remains my head, on the pillow on my bed,
But
one tug and there it goes! All my guts and hair and toes
With my bones are dancing jolly in the corpse’s den!
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