I talked to an old man once
as I was riding on the bus.

Had a tendency to ramble,
and always had the urge to cuss.

He said he had a theory,
and his whole life he had spent.

On how Death was a women,
and this is how it went.

Death has to be a women
cause only she could be so cold.

Dressed in all black,
and always coming for your soul.

A scythe she holds in one hand,
an hour glass in the other.

She gets pleasure from her name,
and not from any other.

She keeps her bones polished nice,
and her hair free of spiders.

She knows something about everyone,
and loves to be desired.  

He said she had a husband once,
but he tried to run off when she got sick.

So before he left she killed him,
his mistress, and his brother just for kicks.

He said he could see at one point
how beautiful she had to be,
but all that's left was skull, and flesh,
anger and deformity.

So I laughed and said oh
so you've seen her before.

He said yeah can't you,
look up she's standing by the door.