ARISEN GRAVEYARD

How oft it is when men die that death may die at the point of grave.Should there be mercy that it may flee abode at their keepers wrath.O that truth may come from its den as a lion that it may speak that my sordid and blisful pen brutal than death and merry as sweet as the lollipop and mercurial as the day.Graveyard that hath sucked my uncle's bone dry as the sanddunes hath been impuissant to transit him dead bone into the graveyard.To behold that my pen hath tucked the graveyard beneath his foot so death's pale flag emasculated him ere his transition into the yard of silence.O graveyard,earnest brute of the heaven's moisture speakest thou foul to give up his carcass for the resting place.O what more favour can my pen do to recalcitrate him sheol.Is such axiom so crimson in thy lips to utter and swallow in thy guttural?Depart again death as brute as my pen sallow;for the grave shall not have my uncle's recumbence to the yonder beneath.Now will i lay myself with everlasting life to ferry comfortable comfort,