Vogon’s Corner: A word in your ear, master Death.
Oh, Death, it really would appear,
Your aim is far from fair,
In cutting one, your edge reaped two,
Did part a third soul’s hair.
Please answer to your recklessness,
That last to take the fall,
Did she duck a shade too late,
Or was she just too tall?
As meek and lowly mortals doomed,
We can but ask, ‘But why?’,
Dispose our grievance to the air,
And wait for no reply.
In kind, I spare a bootless breath,
Turn up my eyes and dare suggest -
Not so arrogant as to tell –
You take your scythe afield afar,
For this one’s mowed quite well
