I have stopped dead
Twenty minutes early
I am spent, in the
Likelihood that no-one will like
Uncle shipyard skeletal pauper
A brilliant line
I have found emptiness
Settle
A bit more chic this
Readiness in the stiffs' quarters
Steady nerves, start
In the middle of an eventual number
Ninth, there are seventeen
For comfort
The mundanity, the essentiality of a head-count
Is for comfort