Look at that sweet yellow dog
some golden lamb lying in its fleece,
warm and cozy but eternally tragic,
as all mortal beings are.

We are tragic because we die.
Because, no matter what we do
or try to do, there isn't anything
that can stop the scythe.

Abby, sweet Abby,
sleeping sound and silent.
You are like us.

You look at me with eyes
pink and full of sorrow,
like the eyes of my friends,
broken and beaten,
confused and lost.

Go back to sleep,
rest your brows'a'twitching,
rest your tired snout.

If we cannot rest surely you should.

Let us rest so
you may pull us
in little white carriages
to heavenly happiness.

Take Eliot and I away,
away from silly school stresses
that mean nothing but
sand in the river.

Don't let us be cracked skulled
by future unknown mysteries,
impossible to be known things.

If we let you rest, let us not be worried.
Relieve us of that.