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The Grim Reaper, stirs from another well earned day of heavenly sleep
From within the bowels of this cavernous earth, from his cave so deep

His cloak and scythe, been cast to one side in an unceremonious heap
From last night’s hard work of collecting souls in the local town sweep

His dry and aching bones creaked from the hot fires that burned within
Time maybe, he thinks, for a glass of his favourite iced cooled pink gin

As his aching bones start to loosen up he now starts as to feel at ease
Outs his cavernous abode to feel through his bones the night’s breeze

As little Goblins appear, muttering to themselves on his, ravaged sight
By his grim face, they know they are in for another arduous filled night

Checking on his death list rota to see what work next needs to be done
Before another night is over then coming home before next morn’s sun

As reading through the rota list a bony smirk jars across his aching jaw
When on it he sees; the names of those he knows as to be never-more

Mr Jones the bailiff, to be cast forever, into the bowels of hell to spend
Casting out so many into homelessness, with no humanity, did he lend

Mr Brown the greedy landlord that who charged way far too much rent
The Grim Reaper, ponders on his face when he sees who has been sent

His worthless soul soon to be collected, forever in hell, made to repent
And to this day nobody knows to just where his overcharged rent went

As the iced pink gins have done their work his bones now do less creak
He then passes some foul-smelling flatulence and has his morning leak

Now dresses in the only attire he has known since working in hell here
As only the best of the town’s collector of cursed redeeming soul seers

Scythe and clipboard in hand, he sets off, into the rain, and windy night
Until over the town he stands, formidably when he is over 7 ft in height 

Before passing down onto the cobbled streets below at a door to arrive
Back home the Goblins take this moment, to have a cigarette and skive

They seem to know the score, it is going to be, one hell of a darn night
As seen with the speed of the Grim Reaper as he sets off in rapid flight

As town folk slept, idling chimneys, released their last plumes of smoke
Oblivious, to the clicking of the Grim Reapers feet, and his trailing cloak

Firstly, was old man Jones who was sleeping soundly upon the top floor
The Grim Reaper rapped twice, with his scythe upon the old man’s door

You could almost feel as the neighbours burying deeper into their quilts
The door though unmanned, opened itself as if without of a hint of guilt

The Grim Reaper stooped beneath its archway, then ascended the stairs
Gave an old fart of a cat sleeping upon one of them, a mightily of scares

The bedroom door opening, again untouched, like it had a life of its own
Upon the sight of the Grim Reaper, Mr Jones, let out one ‘eck of a groan

The Grim Reaper in one sweep lifted this man upon his bony shoulders
His bed now bare, set within the wall, a dying fire, which still smolders

Leaving the cobbled streets, as disappearing into the mist with his prize
Listening not to Mr Jones, the rotten bailiff, pleading, and so pitiful cries

The old fart of a cat had scarpered, on other rellie’s it had to make a call
Whilst the Grim Reaper who made a fearful sight towering over it so tall

Goblins on hearing of their master’s return, ready themselves for chores
Extracting gold teeth with pliers, and, piling their bodies, all up in scores

Mr Brown; the ever so overcharging rent man, tenants now just relieved
Fred the fishmonger who poisoned his wife on accusation was aggrieved

The Cooper boys, who watered down the wine, as filling up their pockets
Matt, who poached fish in the river Fife, an angry Earl he'd made a profit

The work continued on through the night, until at last it was finally done
With the Grim Reaper and the Goblins settling down before the next sun

The Goblins, with their lager, and the Grim Reaper, with his iced pink gin
Then a well-earned lie-in, before another night of soul collections begins
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