Death's Grip Poem by Ima Ryma

Death did have a firm grip on me
Lying in bed, but then the smell
Of sugar cookies came to be.
The wife was baking I could tell.
So I dragged myself downstairs to
The kitchen table where they lay,
Hundreds of cookies, and I knew
That before death would have its way,
I would savor one last delight.
So I did grip a cookie and,
Still in death's grip, started to bite.
A spatula did slap my hand.

'For the funeral, ' the wife said.
I dropped the cookie and dropped dead.