Barely Sticks To his Routine
And the hearse did rehearse its path,
Though the skeleton held dearly
To his ground, smiling loud.
He was bare - needed a shroud,
With his straight bow, grinned severely.
For it seems, he’ll not move ever.
There’s his calcified stick figure,
Who’s not shamed in the least.
For on earth, his time’s increased.
Seems he’s stuck in mortis-rigor.
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