There was an old man, a collector of sorts
Who made his living off of the dead
Through the obituary page he'd earn his wage
Buying things that others had shed
Though some said his job was just morbid
Preying off of the people who died
It wasn't a natural death that took their last breath
But those committing suicide
He bought the things that nobody wanted
For most were scared of a haunting or curse
But he didn't care he would always be there
The same day that they emptied the hearse
He was the only buyer at the auction
For everyone else was afraid
He just couldn't wait to steal their estate
And count all the money he made
'Til late one night while sleeping
Awakened by a bump in the night
At the foot of his bed stood a multitude of dead
As his heart stopped beating from fright
Death had returned to collect his debt
For the reaper would surely be paid
He auctioned his soul for the things that he stole
Until the highest bid was made
The old man had turned up missing
They found claw marks deep in his floor
The people couldn't wait to pilage his estate
For karma had knocked on his door
