As we lie here, listless, and lament,
Helpless with this lost lost cause,
The extirpation men call wars.
And technology: man’s own cerement,
As listlessly we lay here and lament

This life, this death,
This dysthanasia.

As we lay composing our own threnodies,
Doubtful, chant the long long dirge,
Irreverent in self-inflicted scourge,
And laugh at incontinent maladies,
As we lie here composing threnodies on

This life, this death,
This dysthanasia.

As here we lay morose, and contemplate
Our inadequacy, all, all obduracy,
Immutably set down in history.
Sorrowful; no sense to vituperate,
Here, lachrymose, as we contemplate

This life, this death,
This dysthanasia.

Here, laying in our dysthanasia,
No longer caring, nor culpable
For this future irrefutable,
Or history’s hard hard edification,
Here, in this, our dysthanasia.

This life, this death,
This dysthanasia.