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Nothing personal, but

Seedy death I live untill
your foetid breath my life it spills,
and in the face of forced repose
I hate your faced composed of bones...

Your boney knuckles, hate those too,
under which, we all do,
your dreadful cowl that grubby cloak
under which, we all croak.

Your hour glass, your rusty scythe
sharper than a butcher's knife,
and well I hope your glass is slow
when it's time for me to go...

But, for the parts that I have missed
Believe me sir, ill I wished.
Written by Rew
Published
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