Danse Macabre, Death and his horse

I don the sacred, flowing robes of night,
I sheath my scythe and gird my loins.I mount
my steed and nudge his girth.So far from light
we glide.Our task is writ,"To stem a fount."

My steed of chestnut sheen and steel-clad hoof
bestirs the dust of charcoal at his feet.
Yes him and I, we ride alone, aloof,
for each man's fate our task it is to meet.

So sad it is, so few prepare the way
for when a life shall shrivel like a prune.
They shriek, they howl, they weep in their dismay.
Its lost on me, it all seems so jejune.

And with a swift and pointed strike of blade
I shall secure your place in dead man's glade. [/font]