It was raining in the hall
and the spider on the wall
was the first to feel that something wasn't right,
grimly lacing silken doom
through the luminescent gloom,
silent witness to a pitiable sight.
He was grey and he was old.
He was withered. He was cold.
He was moving so you knew he was alive.
As his blood began to freeze
fever dropped him to his knees -
still he scraped his aching carcass up the drive.
Fading quickly, ever stoic,
final effort so heroic,
straining high, he squeezed a letter through your door.
He had given of his best,
now his faithful heart would rest.
He was dead before the letter hit the floor.
You had little time to spare
but you couldn't leave him there
so you hung him up to dry, with yellow twine
deftly knotted at the throat,
as you opened up the note -
"Happy birthday to my darling Clementine".
