He's tall, dark and loathsome

I'm sick, bald, skinny and lonesome

The robe he wears is dark, nasty and disguises his old brittle bones

My insides are worn, bruised, battered and are constantly in the highest pain zones

His relentless chase, peering, peeking, watching and waiting

Using my brain, legs, wit, love of life I weave, duck, dodge, roll, pray and 24/7 always negotiating

This scythe holding, war hero taking, beloved family member/friend thief is a true coward

I will fight the fight of disease, accidents, life and whatever else this son of a bitch throws down

The Grim Reaper's Scythe is meant to be fought until we decide when we are finally ready to be six feet under ground