An Inquiry from Deatha

Death, why must thee scorn the dying bloke
and must thou scold him on his scream so shrill;
Thou must condescend his love of yolk
and the touch which is life's joyful thrill?
Why do thee not lend time for him to think
of love and life or moment's bliss;
Thou wouldst spit, not let him blink
nor to his faithful wife, leave a kiss?
Why do thee not pity his wrinkled face
or the sparkle of his gentle eye;
Thou overlookest his final resting place,
beneath the Earth, where he must lie?

Then wait O Death, O unkind soul,
for cometh a time where he shall rejoice;
Thou presseth him in eternal hole,
then slay thyself-not once but twice.