My petard was inscribed in runes: “why care?”

as I lay pinned against the cross of hate;

the vultures’ laughter parodied the air,

and hunger’s pangs insist I eat my fate.

Such trilogies of terror on my plate,

no wonder none could bear to stay the course,

as bile was fired at enemy and mate,

I’d figured I was safe within the force.

A funeral speech droned on with no discourse,

more chocolate drops than tears fell on my grave;

I vowed to haunt them all to reinforce

the legend that I’d labored hard to save.

As Satan comes to claim my soul I see

I should have dropped the accent from the me.