The Grim Reaper

THE GRIM REAPER (JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE) The Grim Reaper; again awakens from another well-earned day of 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 may be; he thinks for a glass of his favourite, iced cooled pink gin As his aching bones start to loosen up, he now as starts 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 The Grim Reaper rummaging through an old toolbox looking for grease Anything to give his dried out creaking bones some kind of pain release Checks on the death list rota, to see what night work needs to be done Before another night is over, and coming home before next morn’s sun 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 For casting out so many into homelessness with no humility 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 collected, and, forever in hell is made to repent As to this day; nobody knows as just where his overcharged rent went As the iced pink gin and grease have done their work; bones 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 souls Seer Scythe and clipboard in hand; he sets off, into the wet and windy night Until as over the town he stands, formidably when you are 7ft 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 a fast 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 First was; old Mr Jones, who was sleeping soundly upon the upper floor The Grim Reaper rapped twice; with his scythe, upon the old wood door You could almost as feel neighbours, burying deeper into their Ida quilts The door though unmanned, opened itself as if without of a hint of guilt The Grim Reaper bowed beneath the doorway, and, ascended the stairs Gave an old fart of a cat sleeping upon one of them, a mightily of scares As the front door, the bedroom door opened, like it had a life of its own Sight of the Grim Reaper entrance; Mr Jones let out one ‘eck of a groan The Grim Reaper in one sweep; lifted this man, upon his bony shoulders The bed now bare, but; within the wall, a dying fire, it as still, smoulders The old fart of a cat had scarpered; onto other rellie’s had to make a call Whilst the Grim Reaper; made a fearful sight, towering in, at over 7ft tall Leaving the cobbled streets and disappearing into the mist with his prize Listening not to Mr Jones; the rotten bailiff, pleading, and, so pitiful cries The Goblins hearing on their master 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 missus, on accusation aggrieved The Cooper; boys who watered down the wine, as filling up their pockets Roy; who poached fish in the river Fife, an Earl angry, he'd made a profit The work continued on through the night; until at last it was finally done Then the Grim Reaper; and, Goblins settled down before the morn’s sun The Goblins; with their 8 packs of lager, Grim Reaper, with iced pink gins Another well-earned lie-in before another night of soul collections begins Indiana Shaw . . . : )