Dylan Thomas Poem by James McLain

Into the dark we will all go, gentle or not.
Room or not,
room will be made every morning, ready
Or not beds are made.

Uncombined those three very book's,
that speak of each new night.
Old in each name not for your sake,
Only before you close your tired eyes,
for good, do most except and forsake.

Good or bad it matters not,
rich or poor,
happy or sad ready or not.

This is the time other's wait to bid
false goodbye's, thinking to gain your wealth.
You who are old and frail out of breath,
were never to young to stay mad.

Gently into the dark night you will go,
ready or not, still afraid.
Three year's longer had you lost that weight
And twenty had you not smoked.

Tame, soft never wild born to late,
cocksman or whore, drinking to much
no one cares.
Your obsession with life, living to die
lost, forgotten goodbye.

Three billion graves latter and most are filled
with your guilt to the masses all to clear.
Rage all you want, hold in your breath until
your milky eyes buldge out.
Your only hope is to die in your sleep,
cheerfully here where like you, no one dream's.