A Martian Named Smith
written by Jubal Harshaw

The depths of winter longing are ice within my heart The shards of broken covenants lie sharp against my soul The wraiths of long-lost ecstasy still keep us two apart The sullen winds of bitterness still keen from turn to pole. The scars and twisted tendons, the stumps of struck-off limbs, The aching pit of hunger and throb of unset bone, My sanded burning eyeballs, as light within them dims, Add nothing to the torment of lying here alone . . . The shimmering flames of fever trace out your blessed face My broken eardrums echo yet your voice inside my head I do not fear the darkness that comes to me apace I only dread the loss of you that comes when I am dead.

There's amnesia in a hang knot, And comfort in the ax, But the simple way of poison will make your nerves relax. There's surcease in a gunshot, And sleep that comes from racks, But a handy draft of poison avoids the harshest tax. You find rest upon the hot squat, Or gas can give you pax, But the closest corner chemist has peace in packaged stacks. There's refuge in the church lot When you tire of facing facts, And the smoothest route is poison prescribed by kindly quacks. Chorus — With an ugh! and a groan, and a kick of the heels, Death comes quiet, or it comes with squeals — But the pleasantest place to find your end Is a cup of cheer from the hand of a friend.