Even the Reaper Needs a Job

What if the Reaper were to mourn?
           Would he swallow his pride  
deny the folly of a newborn?
 
Death is the ultimate purveyor  
Necrosis does not discriminate
If the Reaper were to sully fatality
He'd be out of a job  
begging for change in some alleyway
                            
                            Children kicking cans at the funny skeleton man
                            The Reaper surrenders his self confidence
                            Waxes nostalgic about his former glories
                            The Hitlers, Bin Ladins, and Joseph Stalins
                            Drinks five hundred beers without so much as a buzz
                            No barley is strong enough for a metaphysical construct
 
Five years pass, no human dies
The earth is gleeful for a while
A radically brief period of time
Thus not even twenty four hours pass
Before the screaming conducts.
                
                 Earth is consumed with pain and suffering
                 For death was the sweet release from agony
                 And finality has been abolished in the Reaper's absence
                 Kicked out of his cushy job without severance
                 The bartender conducts a heart to heart conversation
                 Explains that an unemployed, disheveled bag of bones  
                 Needs a hobby,  a Linked-in page, to try networking.
 
And as the disgraced reaper of souls shambles to his dingy apartment
An epiphany dawns upon his imposing visage.
 
The reaper discovers a talent with words  
A pulitzer poet in the making
The bony author draws upon a range of experiences
Ballads and tales from time immemorial
                          
                          The Reaper has an enduring legacy to dwell upon
                          Reminiscing about his grand achievements
                          giant lizards obliterated with space rocks
                          Horny Romans buried in molten rock and ash
                          women cast into inferno by bigots in funny hats
 
 
                           As the Reaper explores his newfound gift
                           He uncovers an odd conundrum
                           After submiting his praiseworthy prose,  
                           to Jane and Sally and Dick, publisher extraordinaire
                           proprietors of print company "Hot licks".
                           *Unrelated to the Rolling Stones*
                          
                  A local paper prints obituaries the following morning
                          
 "Jane, Sally and Dick found dead, no last names found.
 Family names unknown. Mournful parents lack foresight
 Forget family names of Jane, Sally and Dick on birth certificate."
 
And as, I the Reaper himself scrawls this clumsily metered poem
I desire that you too, my precious sweet darling reader,
Will be granted the blessings of death as well
To you, your loved ones
And even a Cat or Two.
Perhaps not this day
Or even the next
Maybe the bus will hit you
On your way to work.
 
                 For I have learned a lesson today
                 One I shan't ever forget
                 Death is neither curse nor satanic
                 just an inevitability
                 Thus I hope you enjoy it.
 
The Reaper is back in business.
Will you be my next client?
 
I have a really good deal on ammonium nitrate
I hope that you try it.