The Righteous Sleep

Come quick! so quick!

Do check your breath at entry door:

The air, stale sick,

So makes our lungs come clotted thick.

And though we die but slowly,

We will surely die.

Oh, my! oh, my!

I cry, I woeful cry.

But after all, the when we're dead,

We'll then be paltry right;

At least we'll fitly sleep

Every righteous, single night.