Lying cold and prone in corpescent repose
Stripped bare of all earthly clothes
No flattering gown or suitcoat fine
Nor soul from sightless eyes does shine
All cajolery and wisdom long since fled
Biles and humours and all machinery dead
The fresco of person in living years painted
With frowsty breath and ideas blood-tainted
Has, in joining this burgeoning army, crumbled
As cheek-rouge faded, the persona humbled:
Under wakeful eyes the snail is known by its shell
But the naked and the dead know each other well.