(At five o'clock ‘n’ closing fast.
Mad Marksman Ghastly's unsurpass’d.
Extinction’s on the wing.)
Yo, Death! There be yer stinger!
Bared teeth, unsheath’d, beneath yer shirt!
Within one min, who's munchin' dirt
on 'ccount o’ Seker’s* zinger…?
* An Egyptian falcon god of the dead
Sho,' Death: I'd flee yer stingers,
tho’ 'tain't I'm ill-prepared to go:
I'd merely like some quid pro quo:
how's 'bout one final fling befo’…
…yer Kaddish chorus sings…?
I'm a-ok with playin’ slot,
or smokin’ pot… (God knows I'm not
yer quintessential swinger.)
Bro Death, spare me yer stinger!
Sham shamans spout, "He's got a clot."
Whose fault…? "His own!" (I'd best quest not
for whom curt curfews ring.)
So: Death, Bereavement Bringer:
My mother's call I’m urged to heed.
(What call…? "My son: resist yer need
to loiter, loll ‘n’ linger.")
Show, Death, where be yer stings:
None out back. None in Santa's sack.
They're lacking in our postman's pack.
(Plus, twice he always rings.)
Who-o-oah, Death! Put by yer stingers!
Just cool it, Earl! Yer lip uncurl!
Desist, Death Dipshit, lest I flip
ya birds: third -- upwards -- fingers!
