Song of Myself

Beard white, face a little ruddy,
pleasantly fuzzy, already half drunk.
A hundred years pass with the wave of a hand;
ten thousand affairs — one turn of the head and they're gone.
Lying sick in bed, a skinny Buddhist believer;
walking along singing, a daft old man.
And now I hear that lovers of the curious
are going to paint me on a screen!
Author of original: 
Po Ch├╝-i
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