Weasel

Death took the time to weasel in, he lives in my insides. And every now and then a grin peeks out and quickly hides. And when I laugh at your new joke, he holds on to my ribs. Each night my liver gets a soak, and Death is Mister Fibs. One day he shakes his frosted beard and sharpens his big sickle. With pitch -black gown he looks so weird, my life's not worth a nickel. He cuts right through the organ group and severs the aorta, I've reached the tunnel of my loop, St.Peter ante porta. I wonder why the moon stands by so idle, unconcerned. Into the vast and star-lit sky drifts smoke when I am burned.