[?7hDeath's Victory She should of died hearafter; There would of been a time for such a word. To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last sylable of recorded time, And all of our yeasterdays have guided fools The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. - William Shakespeare MacBeth V.v.17-28 ÛÛ ÛßÛ Û Û Û ÛÜÛ ictorious death... Û Whose winnings have shot us down, úúú Like the dogs that we are- ú How many more must fall beneath your heel? úú What guage of time are we subject ed to... ú For your pity, úú Or games of fun...? ú Nothing under your grasp r ests- ú ú Often I hear the call, úú And by the bedside of dying I see  your úwork, ú All your ambiguities, ú All your mysteries... úú In work- úúú But yet, what is a poor ma n to do, úú When at every juncture he  sees your face, ú In one form or another...? úúú úú "Deadmen don't talk!" reads the sign, úú Every cold pulse felt... úú Every jump in the night... ú Brings me closer to rexami ning my life. úú That by the blood that mov es through and through, úú And the ether deep inside  my being... úú Every man learns to fear you , úúú But never escape you- úú ú On the battlefields of lif e úú I see your face overshadowi ng úú all... ú The hard reality of living , úú To exist is for a moment.. . not an eternity. úú And when my name is called, úú And when peace entombs my  face in love... úúú Dark wine will be served to t he mourners úú that day, ú And the ministers of fate and hell will carry úú me away- ú úÜ úúúÛÛÜ ÛÛÛÜ ÛßÛ úúú ßÜÛÛÛÜÜÛ ÛMister E. [CiA] úú ÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÜÜ úúúÛÛÛÛÛÛÛÛ Ü úúú úúú úú úú úú úú úúú úú ú ú ú úú ú úú ú úú ú úú ú ú ú úú ú úú ú ú ú ú ú ú ú ú ú