Death, no dearth of hubris,
you took my love away. Now
I lie until I cry and miss your kiss
death took away, your hugs that
kept me warm. Death, I tell you
now you better seek night's
darkness never to be seen, for
if I ever spy your shadow against
rough, brown bark of sycamores,
I'll come toward you with axe in
hand and leave you hacked in
piles of chips under which I'll
slip a match and watch 'til morn
your flames fly so high only
blackbirds can smell your acrid
fumes while I hum tunes of your
black good-byes.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS