There will be times, dear friends
That you will encounter,
A cravenous coward,
A pathetic looking thing,
Grovelling and struggling in a backwater bog
With sickly skin and a noxious laugh.

You will peer down
Like a hunter at a wounded animal
And wonder what would be kinder,
A hand in help or a greater mercy even.

So miserable it will appear,
That no doubt you will be disturbed to action,
And it will take your hand gladly,
With a crooked smile and a yelp of glee

Before it drags you down and drowns you in the mud,
All for the coin in your purse,
It is not content with salvation,
For ones appetite grows