I met my death walking down Grant Avenue at
            four miles an hour,
She said, "I am your death."
I asked or I sort of asked, "Are you my doom?"
She didn't know Anglo-Saxon so she coyly
            repeated, "Isn't it enough that I am
            your death?  What else should bother us?"
"Doom," I said.  "Doom means judgement
            in Anglo-Saxon.  The Priestess of the
            dead has a face like whey."
Whey is the liquid which is left after they
            spoon off the curds which are good with
            sugar. The dead do not know judgement.
I am writing this against the Great Mother
 that lives in the earth and in mysteries
            I am unable to repeat
Heros take their doom.  I will not face
My death.