Death becomes himself

He climbs, ivy finger'd
On the shadowy rise
Death drives His chariot
Drawn by stallions on fire

Oftimes He approaches
Silent, on velvety hooves
Toying with his prey
As the cat teases wool

Perhaps His indulgence
The warnings first sound
Foreseeing the inevitable
The fall to the ground

But I
Refuse.

Not yet
Mr. Death
Not yet

I will fight your marching
At every advance
And battle you out
To the last stance

That you will know as you claim
The remains of my earthen hide
That I have fully worn it out
Well before you arrived