Who will be next to scratch the itch of a trigger finger,
Bidding the blood flow in abundance?
I swim poorly enough in plain water;
I doubt I will fare better in the thicker liquid
Until it clots,
And even then,
I am like to fall if I try to stand upon it.
Many slip already who have so sought,
Ladies Macbeth who should have died hereafter
Far more worthily than those who did
And made the darkened carpet upon which many feet yet tread.
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