A doctor of the native country,
He had fired his shots in arms

And in the soft village buttocks
For fees  gentle on hip pockets.

He delivered women of nights
Also noses running on bridges

Sent them city on a village bus
If there was big-size carbuncle.

Now he goes gentle into night,
Not rage against dying of light

Not a word leaves  gentle soul.
Night could not ungentle him.

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