Just Wait till You Yourself Die Slow in Pain -- Again

and Again and Again and Again  
 
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With neither my permission nor a risk-free guarantee,  
reborn am I on planet Earth each time I bite the dust,  
my coming back again the spitting clone of peerless me,
except its being slightly still less peerlessly august,  
plus somewhat less discerning, subtle, modest, and aware,  
along with less acute, astute, and resolute to boot,  
besides less drop-dead gorgeous with a less hot derrière,  
this ninety-year-old hole an ace in every kind of toot.  
Yet each new me is me -- though sans my suave poetic wit --  
in knowing any earth on which one bites the dust is shit.  
 
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