My sexton is the vulture's jaw;
He'll bury me by the wanderer's law
In open field or cloistered cave.
As the wind howls my death lament.
While I convulse through my last torment,
They chant my rites clear and loud.
In the maggot's fattening zest.
May I think I've found eternal rest
As my tissues ferment away?
For my bones roll on upon the plain.