Raising Death

Help!
Cries Death.
I've tripped on my flail
And am impailed!

Please, says I,
Do me this pleasure,
And I will lift you
At your leasure.

You'll find my maw bone-dry,
Small fry.

I only wish
To never die.

Go toss your knuckles!
He says with a chuckle.
That tune I cannot pick--
Now help me up or I'll lay you quick.

Dear Death,
I'll prove my courage bolder,
And lift you high up on my shoulder!
Umph! Hah!

You're grinning behind me,
Darkest shade.
Yet, should I trip now--
You, too, get laid.


2/12/04