THE
GRIM REAPER (JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE)
The
Grim Reaper awakens from another day; from a well-earned 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
he thinks; maybe, for a glass, of his favourite, iced cooled pink gin
So;
as his aching bones start to loosen up, he 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
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 so 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 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
The
iced pink gin and the grease have done their work bones less creak
Then
he 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 street 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
Town
folk slept; as idle 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 tightly, upon the upper floor
The
Grim Reaper rapped twice with his scythe upon the old wood door
You
could almost feel as neighbours; buried 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; as within the wall, a dying fire, it still smoulders
The
old fart of a cat had scarpered; onto other rellie’s had to make a call
While
the Grim Reaper; made a fearful sight, towering in, at over 7ft tall
Leaving
the cobbled streets; as disappeared into the mist, with his prize
Listened
not to Mr Jones; the rotten bailiff, pleading, and so pitiful cries
The
Goblins hearing their master return; readied themselves for chores
Extracting
gold teeth with pliers; and, piling all their bodies 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, the Earl angry they made a profit
The
work continued on through the night; until at last it was finally done
As
the Grim Reaper and the 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 nite of soul collections begins
Indiana Shaw . . . : )
