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Cold death it is, descending from the sky,
That like a shroud, across the land doth lie.

And why need death be cold?
Let we this tale unfold.
Dire death is no distraction for the best!
They gather wind, where lesser souls take rest.
And so our friend, when life had left his chest. 

Precentor to our purple and bellwether to our blues,
With equal grace, he guided all our hues.

Corroded though he was, we loved him still,
Despite his gaze and touch, they left a chill.
And though ‘twere dead, we still wouldst have him stay,
And so, we stuffed him full of bark and clay.
And brought him with us, in his manner dressed:
To those who thought him live, we naught confessed.
And dapper as he was, he rode the fair,
Between the Queen of Harvest and the Mayor.
And all proclaimed his proud, unruffled calm:
“For civic faults, he is the perfect balm!”
Now, seeing as he was our friend so dear,
We thought, in death at least, to make him peer.
And seeing as the pop’lance took a shine,
We ran him for a riding in Tropine.
To all, he brought his strong, unflinching stare,
His back was stiff, his mind without a care.

And this thought then the honest folk,
“A quiet man who never spoke,
And yet his gaze is clear:
His hand is one of which we need not fear.”

Now, seeing as we got him set so high,
We figured he deserved the wedding tie.

And this quoth then his bride-to-be,
When first she spent an eve with he:
“It was dressed in finest raiment that he came to me last eve,
He escorted by his serving men who bowing took their leave.
Never spoke, and yet he listened, listened softly through the night,
And his gaze was always on me and my heart was beating bright.
Manly calm upon his features matched the stars and moon above,
And in nestling ever closer, softly spoke to him my love.
 ‘In the pleasance of our passion shall the secret flowers bloom,
Far above the gray contrivance of the tomb.’”

And by our poor Poldedo, we did fine,
As bodyguards, his coffers filled our stein.
Poldedo, for his part, he raised no frown,
No rumored infidelities, no nights upon the town.
And so we figure might it be today,
‘Twere not a stitch or two that did give way.

Then from his shoulders slid his head
And swiftly ‘cross the floor it sped!
And rolling roused the hounding bray:
“The Councilor’s noggin! Halt its way!
Perhaps he’ll need it yet some day!”

And when at last against a wall his head came to a rest,
A certain gray suspicion roused that Chamber of the Best.
“And might we ask the Councilor as to whether he be dead?”
“He’s but resting,” said his handlers, swiftly sewing on his head.

But seeing as he didn’t rouse from coins beneath his nose,
There wasn’t use pretending, and we put him in repose.

“How long has sawdust voted here?” Shouted voices from the back,
And “We’ll have no corpses in our midst, so have him up and pack!”
And what to do, and when he died, they argued with great verve,
And whether through sheer boredom or before he came to serve.

And they was having at it in a manner grand,
Until the man presiding raised a silence with his hand.

And thus quoth then that honored man:
“And some may say he died today, and other years ago,
And who shall be the wiser, though we argue thus and so?
And were it thus that every corpse we sent upon its way,
Full well we know how very few would stay.
Now, Poldedo has served honorably, as good a corpse as most.
Shall we stick him in an oven then and turn him into toast?
So fine a face, so calm a hand, it is a precious thing.
And as there is a vacancy, I vote we make him king!”
And so it was, and so it is, and so the children sing,
“God save the King! God save the gracious monarch on his swing.”

I think we served to serve his corpse some breath.
He served our lives, and we, we served his death.

For this, in general, is the situation:
The living, from the dead, do form a nation.
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