We thought the angel of death would come
As a thundering judge to impeach us,
So we practised an attitude of calm or indignation
And prepared the most eloquent speeches.
But when the angel of death stepped down,
She was like a spoilt girl in ermine:
She tipped a negligent wing to some
And treated the rest as vermin.
Now we have seen the way she goes on,
Our self-possession wavers:
We’d fear a hanging judge far less than
That bitch’s casual favours.