DEATH IS A SALESMAN
For some special few
Death comes early, sweettalking through
closed doors with a smooth sales pitch,
the vast
unsurpassed
once-in-a-lasttime offer which
cannot be refused.
As my pulse quickens
I squawk "Ain't nobody in here but us chickens,
Mister Chickenhawk, and we pale poultrygeists are not amused."
(If you order RIGHT NOW we'll
throw in the Ginsu Knives, and you can peel
soft/ripe tomatoes with 'em, spiralwise, thin,
never bruising the tender skin.)
Death's dark agent knocks, knocks once more
(Is this the right address???)
With seductive forcefulness
he meets my unyielding door
(Hey, he says under his not-Breath,
Hey lady, I AM DEATH.
I am The Boss.
You got to
open the door, it's imposs-
ible not to.)
"So sorry to have wasted your not-Time,"
I chime,
"Thanks for tryin',
but we ain't buyin'.
Big change,
somethin' strange
in the story:
You got to know the territory."
Some other dude already hit this area,
and hey, Death, this guy will bury ya:
Fella by the name of
Love.