If death’s a dunce, dying’s a bore—
   His incompetent son;
Neither knows what they’re doing it for,
   Just that it must be done.

The father apologetic,
   Dull, but insistent,
The son, half-witted—a pathetic
   Bungling assistant.

Neither familiar with amity,
   Mercy or ritual,
Their stock in trade - burnt-toast calamity,
   Dreary, habitual.

If the one could be set on t’other,
   No quarter or halfing,
Life locked away - (she’s their mother),
   Gods would die laughing.