Don’t Be Grim, Mr. Reaper


Mr. Reaper, sorry to interrupt you at the hospice doorway, 
but I’m seventy-eight and before it’s too late, I’d like to say
you need the cunning of my illustrious P.R. career
to create an image that doesn’t make mortals tremble with fear.
Look in a mirror at your skeletal self. Is this your preference?
I used to spin corporate maleficence into acts of beneficence,
so I don’t think it’s grievous folly
to want to re-brand you from Grim to Jolly?
Not to distress you with body dysmorphia disorder,
but wouldn’t flesh on your bones diminish your horror,
and what about a blue cape instead of a black shroud,
and a brown skimmer hat with a ribbon to make you proud?
Banish your steed to the glue factory, ride a melodious motorbike,
ditch the blood-dripping scythe. Who wants to appear ghostlike?
Play a jaunty tune on an accordion, dance into a sickroom, 
spread toe-tapping joy instead of thunder-clapping doom.
To the beat of the “Beer Barrel Polka,” harvest their dear souls, 
pose for selfies, leave them laughing until their bell tolls.
Wait! Please don’t wag your bony finger at me, Mr. Reaper!
It’s not my turn to be a rotting eternal sleeper.
Even if you hate my glorious marketing plan,
can’t you at least grab me with a velvet-gloved hand?