[In Gilead there’s not a drop of balm, Nor respite nor nepenthe to be found; The shepherd’s absent from King David’s psalm, For in the river Enon He was drowned. Towards other rivers now sped Acorn on, Which through this murky landscape curled and wound: Cocytus, Lethe, Styx, and Phlegethon. ‘Twas Acheron, though, that they now drew near, And Acorn knew he’d seen his final dawn. Grim Charon waited at his marshy pier, But Acorn whinnied, “Fuck that noise,” and leapt Into the waters, biting back his fear. Against the rotting waves the pony schlepped, Amidst a thousand thousand slimy souls That howled or gnashed their teeth or prayed or wept. The river’s morbid currents sucked and pulled, But our determined Acorn stayed in stride: His iron hooves struck out and beat the cold And damnèd spirits right between their eyes. The wraiths shrank back, and in their swirling blood, As black as sin, was Acorn re-baptized. At last, his hooves did touch the fetid mud Of that dread river’s other, darker bank, Where blew a constant miasmatic scud Of misery, from which all pure souls shrank. The pony plodded onward towards his fate, The wretched water dripping from his flanks. It seemed that nothing now could break his gait, That from his course he never could be budged. Despite his rider’s grim, oppressive weight, The steadfast Acorn merely onward trudged, Prepared to have his heavy sins be judged.] #DetectivePony