Four score and two years ago,
lived a man, all could kill.
Four score and two years ago,
he wrote death at his will.
For every thought he pushed,
a day more he would sell.
And this fine day,
he knew he would lay.
But likely so, with a smile on his end,
he wrote again, like he would.
And smiled and signed.
His death bill.
All red gathered.
To look at this fool,
who wrote, not what he must.
Sat and scribbled,
with the noose awaiting him next.
It was a spectacle,
for all that watched.
The man,that he sat,
with ink and paper.
The man,that he knew,
was coming home.
Tad sooner,
than later.
– Akshaya Hemadri
Akshaya Hemadri 