I feel the freezing metal of your sword
against my hairy neck – it moves me not.
You lesser gods can take me at my word:
I’ve quit your altars, and I’ll cast my lot
with the Ineffable. The Great Perhaps
will certainly provide me with a sense
of where to hide before the Grand Collapse,
and when I will receive my recompense.
You spooks who lately harassed all these pale
and superstitious wretches must be gone:
Be gone at once! You loiter in this vale
for fear of your comeuppance! Day is done:
if there’s to be another day besides,
I’ll rise, and try the morrow on for size.