Der Tod Des Pfarrers

When guardian angels failed you in the very end you counted silently lest youngsters overhear, you sensed inside you how this time you would not mend and scrunched your pillow up against your burning ear. It soon was taken from you, cells make their own rules like Ceasar's armies all now lusting for red blood; a tiny rogue persuades all mortals to be fools your march of glory did proceed, led by a dud. Those left are laughing and they sing of times so still like summer's shade trees as they whisper to the weeds you hoped they'd bury you behind the Potter's Mill and let you take that special portrait and the beads.