And what I did was nothing more
Than someone could have done
Who knew what certain tools were for
And used them just for fun.

So there’s no point in praising me
(Although you won’t be told);
I’m just as middling as can be
And shiver when it’s cold.

And nothing I can say or do
Can ward off coming death,
And all my “dazzling” output, too,
Shall fade like worn-out breath.

And, since it’s certain I shall die,
Life’s nothing but a drawn-out sigh.

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