The Dead

A rather depressing poem where things aren't as they seem.

This certainly feels queer,
the little girl said,
about the hand whose man was dead.

I should not touch his arm,
I should get a Gendarme,
and report his death.

What if this man is bad?
Should I feel sad?
Maybe I should be glad.

I will not call the law,
here comes pa-paw,
I will feign anguish and fear.

There, there my little dear.
I will call a Gendarme.
Here, take my arm.

It is cold as well.