It was the morn
And the palms were waved
And the brass was played
Then the coroner came
In his limpid shoes.
 
The palms were waved
For the beau of illusions.
The termagant fans
Of his orange days
Fell, famous and flat,
And folded him round,
 
Folded and fell
And the brass grew cold
And the coroner’s hand
Dismissed the band.
 
It was the coroner
Poured this elixir
Into the ground,
And a shabby man,
An eye too sleek,
And a biscuit cheek.
 
And the coroner bent
Over the palms.
The elysium lay
In a parlor of day.

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