One day fraught with corpses taught
Death’s right hand, his paramour, what
Waylays the program to slay and trot
Amongst piles stacked high of to-be rot.
The left hand gripped a stone refined
To whet the blade what doth consign
A soul to Sheol, to herds bovine,
Marching all with palms supine
Death stopped, then, when a weak child bore
To caliginous fate a rusted sword
He’d sequestered in case of a force untoward
And the harbinger broke an oath long-since sworn
This heinous onus was beyond the pale,
So Death then took up a holy nail
And forced the stake through his own chainmail
And, with a shrill cry, bereaved his tale