The cracking voice of his last hours alive
singing sad notes that Sussmayr took down,
'Give them eternal rest - give me...' A frown -
he hoped perhaps his music would survive
as Handel's had. It had to, for the sake
of poor Constanze. He wished he had gone
to London, that he'd been a better son.
Closset came round, insisted that he take
hot wine, and slapped some ice around his head.
He sang the Lacrimosa, just eight bars,
he knew the rest. Notes flickering like stars
up on the ceiling - and he fell back dead
and turned to music, music that can pray
dance, lust, entwine - severe, intense and gay.