Avaunt, acerbid Brat of Death, that sours
The Milk of Life and blasts the nascent Flowers!
Back to your morbid, mouldering Cairns, and let
Me do my worrying in Office Hours!



II



What though Gorgona at the Portal knocks
And charms the squamiest Serpent in her Locks -
I wear tobacchanalian Wreaths of Smoke
And there are more Perfectos in the box.



III



Now the New Year, reviving old Desires,
The craving Phoenix rises from its Fires.
Indeed, indeed Repentance oft I swore,
But last Year's Pledge with this New Year expires.