Of all mad mysteries on which we mull,
When one conundrum's fitted to the chase,
We ask which gaze is grimmer than the skull
That taunts the living with its stony grace.
In the macabre seasons, there's no null
Of simulated carcasses to place,
Yet still this dread forewarning seems to dull 
As one gets older, how is this the case?

We live and fear within a tiny lull
From birth to death, protected in that hull,
The brain a flower in its bony vase,
And all its curves foundation for our face.
Why should we fear our toothy friend at all?
Our thoughts are cradled in its vaulted space!