After the burial-parties leave |
And the baffled kites have fled; |
The wise hyænas come out at eve |
To take account of our dead. |
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How he died and why he died |
Troubles them not a whit. |
They snout the bushes and stones aside |
And dig till they come to it. |
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They are only resolute they shall eat |
That they and their mates may thrive, |
And they know that the dead are safer meat |
Than the weakest thing alive. |
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(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting, |
And a child will sometimes stand; |
But a poor dead soldier of the King |
Can never lift a hand.) |
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They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt |
Until their tushes white |
Take good hold of the Army shirt, |
And tug the corpse to light, |
|
And the pitiful face is shewn again |
For an instant ere they close; |
But it is not discovered to living men - |
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Whatever meat they may find. |
Nor do they defile the dead man’s name - |
That is reserved for his kind. |