After the burial-parties leave <br />And the baffled kites have fled; <br />The wise hyaenas come out at eve <br />To take account of our dead. <br /> <br />How he died and why he died <br />Troubles them not a whit. <br />They snout the bushes and stones aside <br />And dig till they come to it. <br /> <br />They are only resolute they shall eat <br />That they and their mates may thrive, <br />And they know that the dead are safer meat <br />Than the weakest thing alive. <br /> <br />(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting, <br />And a child will sometimes stand; <br />But a poor dead soldier of the King <br />Can never lift a hand.) <br /> <br />They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt <br />Until their tushes white <br />Take good hold in the army shirt, <br />And tug the corpse to light, <br /> <br />And the pitiful face is shewn again <br />For an instant ere they close; <br />But it is not discovered to living men -- <br />Only to God and to those <br /> <br />Who, being soulless, are free from shame, <br />Whatever meat they may find. <br />Nor do they defile the dead man's name -- <br />That is reserved for his kind.<br /><br />Rudyard Kipling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hyaenas/
