To attend Barbarian Branden’s funeral
And to not damn the wretch deprave,
To speak not aloud of her treachery,
Nor to spit on her pitiful grave,
Were attending one’s own dark funeral,
And piling up dirt on one’s head,
And Harriman now is a nary man,
Nary good, nary true, all but dead.
He who leaps to a lie and a liar
Is first cause in himself of his shame,
And the logic of spirit’s waste fire
Has naught but itself to blame.
Evil draws itself down in its clutches,
Dishonesty drives out life’s spark;
The casket swings open for Harriman
And _her_ claws pull him to the dark.