Doom Song

Aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem, non secus in bonis     ab insolenti temperatam     laetitia, moriture Delli, seu maestus omni tempore vixeris               seu te in remoto gramine per dies     festos reclinatum bearis     interiore nota Falerni. Quo pinus ingens albaque populus umbram hospitalem consociare amant                    ramis? Quid obliquo laborat     lympha fugax trepidare rivo? Huc vina et unguenta et nimium brevis flores amoenae ferre iube rosae,     dum res et aetas et Sororum     fila trium patiuntur atra. Cedes coemptis saltibus et domo villaque, flavus quam Tiberis lavit,     cedes, et exstructis in altum     divitiis potietur heres.    Divesne prisco natus ab Inacho nil interest an pauper et infima     de gente sub divo moreris,     victima nil miserantis Orci; omnes eodem cogimur, omnium                versatur urna serius ocius     sors exitura et nos in aeternum     exilium impositura cumbae.

Remember, keep a level mind when things get steep; and in the good times equally tone down your overweening joy: Dooley, you’re bound to die, whether you’ve been a lifelong glum, or, sprawled through merry days on grass remote, you’ve blessed your guts with glass of Mouton from the adytum. Do a pale poplar and a pine give welcome shade, in love combine their branches? Does the fleeting water (nymph, lymph, serpentine)* shudder and strain, where slant walls thwart her? Send out for wines, for oils, perfumes, and roses’ neverlasting blooms! Defy decay! Forestall mischance! No Norns with yarns! Act fast! Advance!   Write off your hoarded hills, your mansion, your glebe with Tiber’s rolled gold sands on. Your stack of wonga’s true possessor is your successor. A plutocrat with pedigree: Blood-Sacrifice! or you could be a destitute, obscure rough sleeper… Slaughtered! Served up to Lord Grim Reaper. One way! We’re forced, coerced, for sooner or l- ater, our fate’s a well-urned funeral that’s sure to dump us down the river. Ferried out! Banned for ever.