Death is near or is she far

Sitting waiting upon a star

Watching you as you go about

Crying and whining with a pout

Or when you sit between here and nowhere

And wondering if you are somewhere

With her boney fingers

Stroking thought still lingers

Through the empty darkness

With the cry of harkness

Like a lark who sang

As the fool moons hang

Or Death may swoop upon a steeple

To watch the crowds of lost people

Singing a crooning song

Feeling more left than wrong

She’s coming soon to claim the night

When the fool moon shines bright.

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