13. T. Parnell''s Reaper-Friend


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    <blockquote>


    ''When men my scythe and darts supply,


    How great a king of fears am I!''


    ―Thomas Parnell,


    "A Night-Piece on Death"


    </blockquote>


    1


    (Death)


    Where shadows lengthen on the ground,


    He with the blade will swing it ''round,


    Engraving on your soul My name;


    Nothing you do will break My aim!


    Men of the fight have lost their wits,


    Entreating Me in crying fits:


    None will survive when I give chase!


    Men cry for time in sad disgrace,


    Yet I am not an entity


    So turned about so easily!


    Cry and you cry, yet you won''t shake


    Your final sentence that I make


    To send you with My swinging blade


    Hell-ward bound where all glories fade:


    Enter that place, and do your time!


    (Parnell)


    And so I suffer for my crime,


    Not just a crime of passion where


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.   Death Himself takes me on a dare,


    Daring me to begin my tale,


    A harmless crime well-boozed with ale.


    Remember where we dropped our loads?


    T'' was on the midnight at the crossroads.


    So take a load off, Death, my Man!


    So let me see where you began.


    Upon my proposition made,


    Pretending He''s already paid,


    Perhaps he''s just a little shy.


    Let it all out, my Man, says I.


    Yet here, He takes a minute''s pause . . .


    2


    (Death)


    How can I even state the cause


    Over the shifting of my state,


    When I remember not my fate?


    Gone are my days of innocence;


    Regrets are all I have e''er since;


    Even the thought of it became


    As weary as it is a shame


    To be the Reaping hand of God,


    A blade as sharp as it is flawed.


    King of regret, that''s all I am;


    I''m just a dunce, a living sham,


    Not to be trusted by himself;


    God''s the One who take all the wealth!


    Of course, I can''t bring up my case


    For Him to merely strike my face.


    For even Job, that blameless man,


    Entreated God when He began


    Asking the questions Job can''t answer―


    Reminds me of that no-good cancer,


    Satan with all his suave and sass!


    All''s good, until he screws my ass;


    Man, that''s when I had learned too late!


    It''s time for you to meet your fate!


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    FINISH