Rhythmic and Metric

The Man Is Dead

Occasion solemn,
The music tiresome;
Assembly sodden,
A spooky cooee.

A man young desi,
With covered breast says:
Am dead can you see?
My soul is soaring!

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None hear him speaking;
Some chatter, cry, talk.
Many go mocking
The life he had led.

Abound accounts fed
To damage might his.
They’re tales that now tread
Amid yarns spun well.

But what’s heard I tell:
Unholy sad knell.

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