A Dead Copperhead

On an old wooden fence
Once strong, but now needing mending,
Laid a dead copperhead,
Once vivacious, but now surely fading:

The brass sphere my father had shot,
From his old air riffle,
Had caught the snake in the heart;
And surfaced its death rattle.

So he caught it by the tail
And strung it ‘cross the fence.
It slithered toward and tether,
But dying all the while.

Once it stopped, on the fence,
The wind began to blow.
The snake was caught in the breeze
And swung too and fro.

It hung limp after it quit
And my father was quite proud.
It had put up quite the fight,
Or at least was told the crowd.