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 whatโ€™s heard I tell:
Unholy sad knell.

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