On your last day disaster struck the land
For months you had been teetering on the Ledge.
Was it th’ election that pushed you off the Edge? ––
The knowledge that by hot air we’d been damned?
We did not know the last thing you would eat
Would be canned pears. How utterly banal!
You’d been my guide, my colleague, my great pal
On whom I’d foisted many a gourmet treat.
Yet, as your life was moving toward the Shade,
You lay quite still, and like a baby bird
Opened up your mouth without a word
And ate those pears –– your last choice ever made.
When you’d had enough, I turned, and cried.
You never heard. –– You had already died.