Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
BY JOHN DONNE

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Yeah...fuck you death! We dealt with you on our terms and made you wait a long long time for it too!



Samson survived a high kill shelter while sitting on death row. When I pulled him out they said, 'oh by the way he's a strong positive for heart worm'. We did the treatment and come through 100%. Samson got to spend a couple of winters up in New England and New Jersey where he loved the snow. He was built for that. He came back down to Florida where he retired (except for that one uninvited raccoon that came in). Samson is survived by his feline siblings, Little Miss Bitsy Bones, Monty The Python Tail, Jethro Tull and Celina Bean. Samson was 15 years old.