The Head Collector

With a blade in one hand and a spade in the other, The man goes to work, Bodies on the ground, the living soon to be found, When the blade meets necks, and the heads roll. Collecting the head he takes care, For tradition he cannot spare, With fresh water he bathes, In the sun he slaves, To honor the valiant dead, For he knows the way, as his father before him, What is the human body, Filled with waste and want, But the head, Even dead, Has more spirit than a skin of filth, so with respect in his heart he continues to work, Respecting the dead, Cleansing the heads, So that the warriors are remembered.