What I like about ... Is that he is no longer alive. There is a great deal to be said for being dead ! Or we must travel in the direction of fear.

No one cares...

'No one cares less than I,
Nobody knows but God,
Whether I am destined to lie
Under a foreign clod,'
Where the words I made to the bugle call
in the morning.

But laughing, storming, scorning,
Only the bugles now
What the bugles say in the morning,
And they do not care, when they blow
The call that I heard and made words to
early this morning.