Death And Worry Poem by Eric Boakye Antwi

Once I was out and about;
Strolling the neighbourhood from north to south.
I made out a ragged, tattered man
Nourishing himself with the flesh of someone's son.
He was perched atop a train's sleeper.
Discerning correctly that he must be the Grim Reaper
I reached for some stones;
To strike this man of bones.
He, startled, begun to flee
After he was struck on the knee.
Let me be, he cried;
I have done nothing wrong, he lied.
But you have been mankind's scourge;
Taking the lives of every Tom, Dick and George.
I'm innocent, he sobbed at his gate.
The real culprit is my mate;
I'm sorry.
He's called Worry.