A pining poem waiting to be read,
A hungry poet begging to be fed.
His last money spent on a new pen,
The final draft approved and then…
Someone knocking at his door!
Poet spills his ink upon the floor,
in his haste to welcome the reader,
who surely needs must be his feeder.
‘t Is just the Reaper come to call,
the poem’s the writing on the wall,
read by a grateful audience of one.
Goodbye poet, don’t try to run!