by Mr. Schmonz

To seize the day can hardly him console
For whom, if there be more, they'll fall far short.
How, numberer of days, of such high court
Could jurisdiction fall to your control?
Yet since it has, and since I must abide,
To judge your judgment shunts my course astray.
Against some other spirit I'll inveigh
And in my earthly court shall I preside.

'Tis thus we brazenly make sense of hope,
Though rather less of hope made out of sense.
Each neck awaits its moment with your rope;
Your vise awaits its turn to crush each chest.
We give no quarter, draw our plans our best,
And execute them while we have the chance.

The Philolexian Society
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