To the chief musician, Al-taschith, Michtam of Abraham; when one sent,
and they watched the house to kill him
When I in prayer beseech thy benison,
Many are they thy favours I could seek:
A long and worthy life for my only son,
A happy hearth for my wife, and for my mother
Health, and untroubled waiting in the sun,
(A golden crown in Eden for my father!)
And for my several kin, I could also speak,
Of this one’s need, desire of that one,
And ask for each of thy abundant grace:
Save that today I ask no blessings, no,
I am but one of many almoners
Who ask for him thy devastating curse!
May his flesh fall from him, and may he, living, rot
Until he is not sure he is, or he is not.
May he be flung from fever into an icy cold
And may his days be long for him, but he not old.
May strange diseases take him, doctors come
From far-off lands to twitter over him,
Matter-of-factly, without pity,
As over a strange new scum.
O may his brain be peopled by grim ghosts,
And may he wake from sleep, in sweaty fear,
Fearing four murderers at the four bed posts!
And after a fortnight of convulsions may he finally die,
And be remembered, if remembered at all,
In the name of some newly found, particularly disgusting fly,
Or in the writing on a privy wall.
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