There was no foe to strive with—wherefore strive?
No food to kill—he kept his food alive.
Herding his dinner, see him sit and sing
Serene, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”
When man the shepherd, after years did pass,
By nature’s increase grew, until the grass
Failed to support the requisite supply
Of cattle who must live lest he should die;
Again a grieved observer might be led
To pitifully say, “The King is dead!”