Terry has got  him,
at least in his mind,
a skeleton with a scythe?
That’s what he is,
at least in your eyes,
death prowls the streets at night.

Many have fallen,
none have rose,
in the wake that he leaves behind,
he is kind to old terry,
he still hasn’t met him from behind.

Old terry my dear he got it right,
your time has most defiantly come,
for friends help you,
and readers love you,
somewhere in the shadows,
death raises his scythe. 

The End

5 comments about this poem Feed