So many reapers, Father John, So many reapers and no little son, To meet you when the day is done, With little stiff legs to waddle and run? Pray you beg, borrow, or steal one son....
Swerve to the left, son Roger, he said, When you catch his eyes through the helmet-slit, Swerve to the left, then out at his head, And the Lord God give you joy of it!