The moon’s light is waning, my friend
As through these magic woods our way we wend
I ask if you can carry the picnic basket I’ve brought
And you your beautiful arm do lend
In my own bag is a hatchet, a saw, a spade
So I can hack you and rend you
After you’ve dug your own grave

* This poem was written within hours of O’Corn’s death and within minutes of his wife’s confession that nearly 35 years ago, at the beginning of their courtship, she had once at a local dance kissed another man.  The aged O’Corn was at first silent and then asked for a pen and paper upon which he immediately scrawled this poem.  The dense symbolism of the poem is unclear and to this day it is unknown if the poem could have in any sense been a response to her confession.

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