Harken ye who stand at deaths door.
Do not fret or worry Anymore.
His touch may be icy, and cold.
But it's filled with love, or so I'm told.
He takes away sarow as well as pain.
A bliss to compare to a summer rain.
He'll take your hand and off you'll go.
The two of you walking toe to toe.
So do not fret or worry in these last moments.
Stand firm at his door, and hand him your two pence.