The Grim Reaper,
That half human thing clothed in black,
With veins made of metal pipes,
That hovers over our death beds,
That waits for us when our days are few,
With eyes that watch our every move,
Counting down ‘til the very end,
To take us to his home
To a place called death.
With his slimy, cold, bluish gray hands,
Reaching out to carry us home,
Fighters that we are, we keep him away.
Our cancers, our pains, subsiding every day,
We shout out in defiance to his selfish ears,
“Go away Grim Reaper,
We’re not ready for you.
Our cancer’s gone, our future’s bright,
The rules of the game, too bad for you.
We are cheaters and so very glad to be.”