You are stingless and cannot make a corpse br but glory in the ailling bane men bid br their hearts abide. Who fears you even or mid br the art of the thought? Whose hand can you shake br br but intrudes while life desolated, fights br to suffer. Silly how you exercise br the odds then. The pining bale, I previse, br of whom you are slily left in exchange br br might be humble and selfless, serving your br table and so, overthrown. Grievous how br you sieze all deference and irking, cow br all way. But let me tell you, Death, men still br br are high-born. Tis the Demiurge who gave br you; to send them down the way of the clay br that must not come to pass with life. Their sway br thus accursed to the dregs and refuse was. br br Can you before the eyes, stab any front br or betide masterless? Prove your sinew br and mark the ground their grave and waterloo. br Yet, men kill you, Death. You are but strengthless.