And every now and then a grin
peeks out and quickly hides.
And when I laugh at your new joke,
he holds on to my ribs.
Each night my liver gets a soak,
and Death is Mister Fibs.
One day he shakes his frosted beard
and sharpens his big sickle.
With pitch -black gown he looks so weird,
my life’s not worth a nickel.
He cuts right through the organ group
and severs the aorta,
I’ve reached the tunnel of my loop,
St.Peter ante porta.
I wonder why the moon stands by
so idle, unconcerned.
Into the vast and star-lit sky
drifts smoke when I am burned.

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