Who  cares? 

                      The epicurean   verve  once dashing

                     Now a dust, a sediment on the bowl.

                     A  crumbled  shirt hanging on the wall.

                     Speaks of  abuse  in its vintage.

                     Intermittent  cough. Phlegm  spat thoughtlessly

                     Mocking the moribund. Looks as if  it says

                    ‘Glad I came out.’  In short it is going to                

                     Die another   Death. Who  cares?