Public Correspondence to A Man Called Death:

I have watched you from my window
every ****** day
for the past 3,
and I must have to ask
just why you seem to always
just be doing a tiny bit of
fiddling
beneath your long, blackened robes?
Could it be
that you watch me change,
slip from one post-industrial
piece of industrial garbage
to another,
fat bottom shaking and
curly hair quaking all about?
If so,
feel free to give me a yell,
for I am so very lonely,
Mr. Death.
So,
when is it, exactly,
that you're planning to come in
and stay with me?