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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required When death comes, sordid, scary I shall not fret, as others do be I shall not be shaken, not in the least measure But will welcome him with utmost pleasure He shall sit upon my crouch And beside him, I shall crouch I shall show him hospitality I shall make the issue of fear, a frivolity From the lack of meanness of purpose, He shall, the aim of his visit disclose Yes, when all is still and shrill He comes but to kill But from cunningness and sagacity I shall, with pretence, make the issue levity We shall hence drink from the grail Until our limbs begin to frail We shall drink of the sweet wine to stupor To stupor, yes to stupor We shall talk about our stupid acts Acts we would in the future, please to retract I shall say how I diddled He, how he killed and giggled Perhaps, I shall frown upon the mention Mention of the butchery of a loved one, long lost and gone From the intake of much wine, we shall get stupid So stupid and our chat shall get insipid Death himself shall bore and sleep I too, shall plunge in the world beyond, deep But before he arises, I shall gain soberness A state of solemn body and mind togetherness And lo! Upon the floor shall lay my guest, Death In my abode, there upon the floor Upon the floor, everyman’s terror Unbelievably at mortal man’s mercy I shall stand above him with wrath or mercy To kill or to let, the death of many to compensate The issue of dying and death, to obliterate But much to the disappointment of many, I shall not commit to any For he has no life which I could take For lifeless he is with nothing at stake And for the time he shall be in slumber I shall keep guard and no longer slumber For if I sleep, he may wake But no, he shall not wake And all that would sleep on that night shall wake on the morrow And upon the dawn of a new day I shall see him off on his way Much to the disappointment of my neighbor The act I know he will deplore But I shall warn For to my abode has death come and gone But to his, it is yet to come.
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