A hobnailed tread upon the road
Falls sudden silent on the grass.
Still with throb and throb of pain
He hears the children at their play
Chanting insistent in his brain.
Coughs: and with a whistling breath,
Though he knows how the count will fall,
Turns to play a game with Death,
Turns to the last game of all.
Eena-mena-mina-mo,