Low slung and sullen
Below a thick boughed tree
Over which are slung the ropes of those
Who’re bowing out,
Who’ve given up.
I go to the black water well,
Dip the jewel encrusted cup and fill it well.
Lift it to blueing lips
The gift the final sup
The head dips forward, sunken suddenly.
I am there to place the spare pennies
On the face and eyes of the replenished.
Alchemisland 
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