The Grime Reaper

THE GRIM REAPER (JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE) This 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 as now 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 Checks on the death list rota, to see what night work 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 As casting out so many into homelessly without 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 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 souls, seer Scythe and clipboard in hand, he sets off, into the rain, 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 And seen with the speed of the Grim Reaper, as he sets off in 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 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 as feel 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 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, as disappearing into the mist with his prize Listening not to Mr Jones, the rotten bailiff, pleading, and so pitiful cries 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 missus, on accusation, 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 Indiana Shaw . . .