Bovine-like, we shall meet our deaths (Such is the scythe the reaper wields) No matter that the final breaths Come in stockyards or placid fields. A slight rustle, perhaps, we’ll feel At the loss of our distant kin; Another gear, another wheel. Oh well—that’s life—come on, tuck in.
What, then, shall be the epitaph? No bromide written in some stone, One would hope, for this life once shone In a mother’s eyes, father’s laugh Which still flower in memories And vexes all our reveries.