Dealing With The Grim Reaper Poem by Ima Ryma

Last night it was my turn, Death came,
Bony finger at me did point,
Hobbled 'bout on skeleton frame,
Arthritis paining ev'ry joint.
'I see you are hurting, ' I said,
'Here is what I'm willing to do, '
'If you reprieve my dropping dead, '
'I'll make a comfy couch for you, '
'On which to rest your aching bones.'
Death thought about it, then agreed,
And left me sounding relieved groans.
I'd never made a couch indeed.

This true grim tale I tell, no myth,
Reaper cushions I'm dealing with.