Face first on the road in a puddle of death, the harbinger of doom lies dead.
His luck has run out and his days as an omen are over, but they come with a caveat:
Dear feline, can you be resurrected with nine vials of antidote,
Brewed from fresh fish and little girl tears?
Alas, ’tis not to be:
Death has brought down his uncaring scythe,
And your spirit has departed for parts unknown.
Cracked pavement, bright lights, hot rubber,
Another casualty of the city.
I am awoken from my Darwinian dreams with sharp intake of breath,
And, with woe, prepare the first of the funeral rites,
For all shall follow in your wake.