by Peter Bamford To dee or not to dee, that's mi conundrum. Is it best t'pudup wi' all t'weight, this life lumps on thi showders or feight. Tek on t'world an' punce 'ard ad its shins, mekkin sure that despair never wins. Do ah put mi 'ead down an' just 'ope, that wi' tears, th'aches an' pains I con cope. All o' t'strife that is life disappear, wishful thinkin' as t'darkness draws near. Just to turn up thi toes an' to dream, wi con ponder life's murderous scheme. All th'assle o' three score an' ten, o'er agen an' agen an' agen. What mon reight in 'is 'ead would attempt, life o' browbeatin', rite an' contempt. All o' t'sorrow an' t'swagger o' t'foo', tek thi shank up an' cawidadoo. Cartin' t'burdens wi garner in life, will'st find th'answer on sharp o' thi knife. Much too freight'nd to let go an' dee, off towards th'undiscovered countree. T'realm wi no return ticket to find, rayless 'aunt, bloody awful to mind. meks us puddup wi t'malice wi ken, for all t'malice we'd know only when? Ancient fear thad meks us all yello', an' t'dreams an' all th'ambitions mello' clouds our thinkin' an' leads us astray, when wi all end up losin' our way? Ophelia, bonny lass, tha marn't forget mi antics in thi prayers!
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