swarleyy:

Now we affront the grinning chops of Death
And in between our carcass and the moil
Of marts and cities, toil and moil and coil
Old Spectre blows a cold protecting breath
Vanity of vanities, the preacher saith
No more parades, Not any more, no oil
Unambergris’d our limbs in the naked soil
No funeral struments cast before our wraiths

Parade’s End, No More Parades | Ford Madox Ford