'Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well.'
Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
He entered that serene assassin's cell
And hung his hat and coat upon a nail.
'I think that life in this secluded spot
Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?'
'Well, yes,' said Goldenson, 'I can't complain:
Life anywhere-provided it is mine-
Agrees with me; but I observe with pain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem