I can be of sound or schock. I can either be calm or come crashing down with a mighty roar. Very rarely I become rogue, and therefore tales of Men, never to return.

I have a thousand roads, but I do not have the embrace of the sun. I am known for my trail of death.

Franklin sang my praises of that no one can deny, To gladly accept a pardon would not be a jive lie, In the end the bald contingency had their say, Yet I am still celebrated in a very special way.

One Bunny, a hunter, several birds, and a cat, just a few of the thousand all under my hat. Known hater of carrots, though I’d chew them for jokes. Been gone since nineteen eighty nine, so I guess that’s all folks.

I’m dug by the living for the ones who can’t speak, Secrets whisper from me when the moon hangs low, Detectives disturb me for bones long forgotten, Yet once I claim you, no man ever escapes.