For works with similar titles, see Soliloquy.
SOLILOQUY—I
No, I'm not afraid of death,
(Not very much afraid, that is)
Either for others or myself;
Can watch them coming from the line
On the wheeled silent stretchers
And not shrink,
But munch my sandwich stoically
And make a joke, when "it" has passed.
But—the way they wobble!—
God! that makes one sick.
Dead men should be so still, austere,
And beautiful,
Not wobbling carrion roped upon a cart …
Well, thank God for rum.