As I lay dying one fine October day, 
     A quite hippopotamoid person 
     Negotiated my pact with the eagles: 
     They agreed to survival 
     So long as I would speak 
     Their position in matters 
     Of state and stake. 
     The periodic low whisper of nearby 
     Wings too large for redtails 
     And morning conversations with 
     The local King of Crows tell me 
     That I am still watchee 
     As well as watcher: 
     Moreover, 
     I notice there is still flesh 
     On rather a large number 
     Of my bones, and so I see 
     No purpose in quibbling 
     About the corporeal 
     Substantiality or 
     Embodimental trimmings 
     Of grace and skill.