by E. Shaun Russell
We gather here upon this barren plain
And wait to die beneath the blazing sun;
We squat in heaps as though our flesh were one,
And beg the gods for mercy, all in vain.
We lost the perseverance to remain
As proselytes of pride to those with none,
In final act of virtue, we’ve begun
To welcome death, although we fear its pain.
But never mind the crow: he has no taste
For what amounts to naught but human waste;
And do not scorn the scorpion his sting:
He cannot kill what does not feel a thing;
And when the boa has your shell encased,
Give thanks for the release that he shall bring.