The animal’s song
When everyone who lives is dead; when every spoken word is said.
O when the final wind exhaled, the final ocean storm regaled!
O when our ship has truly sailed, to be on the bleakest rocks impaled.
Still at half ten will I be put to bed, Ah! and will I be more promptly FED.
Will I be fed by merciful hand of God, or will he batter me with his just rod?
Is piety meant for the likes of me? Such a thing could it ever be?
At last will it be explained to me, why a soul shouldn’t be created free?
Or would the mighty, true and holy God, be moved to condescend to think’t odd?
