We touch backhands for warmth,
Fuzzy-bodied earthlings
Relying on the weather and
Texting through sound
Swarm the scene
pack rocks in your pockets
and don't listen too closely
to the music
Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear;
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear
-Walter Savage Landor
