Returning from the dying moment
Cannot be in vain.
There must still be rage in me
That may some life sustain
I was not made for prudent skill
For safekeeping from evil.
My skull was made cussed, hard,
To lock horns with the devil.
So gird thou thy depleted loins,
O struggling mortal man,
Let your last syllables be
The loudest you can.
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