Death, the heinous King, junkets past us and them,
While Life, but a Court Jester, stands in caps and bells,
Direfully assaying to please the Eternal Throne.
And though he travails, never does he cease,
The Master’s wishes, he scrambles and he veils,
But then there’s a snap of frost, and a bicker in haste,
When even the mettlesome are relinquished,
Before the whetted Scythe with a Stygian hue,
The only time when the Tyrant grins, just chortles,
And the Motley Fool squalls and solicits.
