BY DR. AGONSON
His beak the soft flesh tears;
no life is left which cares
to shoo black feathered fowl away.
Stale bile cakes his crown;
black blood he swallows down.
He caws in joy at this feast day.
The crow, he will not gorge,
but satisfied will forge
heavenly paths where he might play.
The worm nuzzles kindly,
and wiggling blindly
into the corpse quickly invades.
Eyeless, he haply comes,
yet happenchance he thumbs,
for his is one of many trades.
The work, it must be done,
but not under the sun.
Yet verily his shelter fades.
The black before them all;
over the man a pall
grown thick forewarned each one of these.
Yes, shadows in his eyes
did shortly him apprise
that death would come despite his pleas.
So darkness had him first,
some say that part’s the worst
and worms and birds are met with ease.
Tale Told 
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