Death's counting the corpses piling up here on earth. "Not enough, not enough!" Wants to bulk up his girth; no peals of laughter, snickers, giggles, titters, mirth. He sits, contemplating, (knows it's aggravating) the numbers that pass by— no one escapes his eye. He sends his minions to cause anger, torment, war as, beneath hearing range, he whispers, "I want MORE!" Does it matter that they're bulging at Death's stark door? He knows a plague or two will raise numbers anew. Bigotry was working but now folks are smirking, trying to make sense, peace, for ev'ryone, nations! With promising lies, he confuses opinions in cahoots, using, the Devil and his minions. What do sheer numbers mean to this onerous feign? Death's tired, wants to rest; is doing what he does best. When there are no longer men on earth to grovel, he can dwell—eternity--in his hovel, rest his weary mind from thinking, turn to shrivel. What holds him together is duty, 'go-getter'! When will it ever end? Like rabbits, birthing spins … Death has upped his quotas—sending hate, AIDS and war. Still … we're bouncing back as all mankind has before. Too bad we won't settle and chase Death from our door!