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The Mortician, or A Plague Doctor's Rebirth

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A sly man of embalming and of quick wit,
His self and his job seemed like a perfect fit.
Oil spill hair and separate shaded eyes,
Like grass and of silver, inside of him lied
A torn-winged angel who did deals with Death:
In his profession, he laid bodies to rest
And prepared them for graves underneath the ground
Where their deceased ancestors could be found.
Upon his visage appeared then a grin
At the thought of the job which was before him.
Behind then, his glasses, his gaze then turned vile:
“Nothing’s as lovely as a dead man’s smile.”



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