The Collector

There was an old man, a collector of sorts Who made his living off of the dead Through the obituary page he'd earn his wage Buying things that others had shed Though some said his job was just morbid Preying off of the people who died It wasn't a natural death that took their last breath But those committing suicide He bought the things that nobody wanted For most were scared of a haunting or curse But he didn't care he would always be there The same day that they emptied the hearse He was the only buyer at the auction For everyone else was afraid He just couldn't wait to steal their estate And count all the money he made 'Til late one night while sleeping Awakened by a bump in the night At the foot of his bed stood a multitude of dead As his heart stopped beating from fright Death had returned to collect his debt For the reaper would surely be paid He auctioned his soul for the things that he stole Until the highest bid was made The old man had turned up missing They found claw marks deep in his floor The people couldn't wait to pilage his estate For karma had knocked on his door