The Ballad of the Darwin Dead

In twilight’s hush, where shadows creep,
And folly wakes what wisdom keeps,
There whispers low a ghastly choir—
Of souls consumed by their own fire.

Not murder’s hand, nor fate’s design,
But hubris, vast, and thirst malign,
Did lure them to the reaper’s gate,
By foolish deed, by chosen fate.

The man who mocked the storm’s cold breath,
Now lies in icy arms of death;
The dreamer strapped to wings of steel,
Felt gravity’s unflinching seal.

Each tale—a dirge of wit betrayed,
A jest where life itself is played;
They sought to climb, yet sank instead,
These laureates among the dead.

So mark this book of doom and mirth,
These testaments of squandered birth;
For Nature writes in crimson ink,
Of those too bold, too blind to think.

And laughing still, the void implores,
“Come claim your prize… Darwin's Award.