Here they come, a-slithering,
to start their nightly winnowing,
all seeking out what once was nice,
was beautiful, but now is not,
now slowly sinking into rot
to feed these little manure makers,
these busy, slimy undertakers,
creatures of the damp and dark,
eaters of the leaf and bark.
They have another purpose, too.
I think it might discomfort you,
but you must know it plain and clear,
it is not something you should fear,
it comes to each and every one,
eventually, when life is done:
those of us who are not burned
are by them to the earth returned.