Quietly you creep; you creep to my door,
The persist, tap; tap too anoying to ignore.
The tales you spin, you spin so smooth,
It glides down like gin and vermouth.
Coughing, choking stealing my breath,
Wanting, yearning a quickening death.
Gradually you steal, you steal every year,
The stench of mortality won't disappear.
The tales you spin are the passions in life,
Twisting, turning reaper's dull little knife.
So wrinkles and gray hair follow your wake,
While slowly I die with each breath I take.