To Thomas Aquinas a sphere I was and to Homer a wandering star And when I gazed upon the earth below Isaw melancholy and thinkers fester and grow While I spun with Rings almost ticking around me closer to you than the lords of sky and sea

Field of mighty tow’ring staffs, Shield of thick green skin. Hacked back down with silver blade, Sweet prize locked within.

I’m loyal, furry, and chase a ball, Yet I may hound you through it all. A term for pals, or foes at best, I’m man’s close friend and slang for pest.

I topple homes and kill the dead, my sickly stench lies just ahead, I await you at the end, but not in heaven on earth instead, All things do fall before my hand, once they do they return to the land.

I paint the woods in fire and gold, a fleeting crown before the cold. I whisper through the amber air, and lay soft carpets everywhere. I bid the songbirds fly away, tucking the blooms in earth’s decay.