When Death comes,
he will not find me
with hands in pockets.
No, I am going to tip my hat
and look the other way.
Going to act like I didn’t
see him coming.  He will
be surprised to learn
he's the only one in the room
not in on the joke.

When Death comes,
I’ll ask if he can spare a buck,
see if he has an extra stamp,
and *** a smoke.
I’ll not inquire about
the weather,
tell him about the family,
or pretend to like his coat.
I’ll just point down the hall
and show Death the door.

When Death comes,
I’ll not shake hands
or be a gentleman.
If he taps me on the shoulder,
I'll brush him aside
with a boorish smirk,
check my watch,
mention he’s looking older.
Then I’m going to ignore him
and pick the lint from my lapel.

When Death comes,
I’ll get my best poem
and read it aloud
but I won’t let Death hear.
If old friends visit,
I’ll make them brownies
and we'll talk about Death.
As life begins to disappear,
and you believe Death has me,
put two sugars in my coffee.

When Death comes,
I’ll be ready.