O, your body fills me with such sadness,

Black claw raking the evening air,

Your face, nature’s clever mask,

Your eyes locked in dead stare.


If there’s divine providence in the fall of a sparrow,

And a mournful grace in the corpse of a deer,

There is no pity found in the woodland bandit,

Death’s perpetual tortoise behind the hare.


Are we free in death,

Or does our reputation precede?

Only the raccoon can tell,

What the afterlife can achieve.

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