Miss Dorman?  I believe we have
an appointment.

I am not ready to die--I refuse!
Haven't heard all I need to from my Muse.
Besides, I can't write poems if I die.
Go away, Death, or I'll spit in yer eye.

Sorry.  You weren't given a choice.
Get in the box.

I am not ready to kick the bucket.
There are words that haven't been written yet.
Please don't bury me in the cold, cold ground.
I can't stand to be closed in, strapped or bound.

I am not telling you again.
Get.  In.  The.  Box.

And I am telling you:  I am not going.

O, yes, you are.

O, no, I'm not.  This talk's getting boring.

Yes, you are.

No way.  Talk to the hand.

Why, you--

Me?  YOU don't understand.

Read my lips:  I am not going with you.
Don't have to do nuthin' you tell me to.
Get off my property, I'll call the cops!
Start running, Buster, and don't you dare stop.

You don't know who you're talking to!

I know who you are, the Angel of Death.
(I can tell, 'cause of your rank, stanky breath.)

Why, I never!!

Well, maybe you should.  Now leave me alone.
Think you can scare me with your ghostly moan.
Hey--why did my ink suddenly turn white?
Noooooooooo--I am not ready to see the Lights--

Not so clever...

eh?

(C) Copy written, 6 October, 2004, by Karla Dorman.