"Wretch! You loved her for her Pokemon and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, you blessed her-that she died! How shall be the ritual, then, be read?-The requiem how be sung by you-by yours, the evil eye,-by yours, the slanderous toung That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?"
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! And let the Sabbath song Go up to a Pokegod so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Misty-ore hath gone before, Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dead child that should have been my bride- For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her orange hair but not within her eyes- The life still there, upon her hair-the death upon her eyes.
Avaunt! Tonight my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the Poke-angel on her flight with a peaen of old days! Let no bell toll!-lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the Earth. To friends above, from Gary below, the indignant Gastly is riven- Unto a high estate far up within the Pokeheaven- From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the Nidogod of Pokeheaven.
