Fight Poem by John F. McCullagh

DEATH felt a tug upon his line.
He gave the reel some play.
Down in the depths the struggle commenced
This was some soul's dying day.

Down in the depths of deep despair
His victim fought the hook.
DEATH had used pleasure as his lure
oft that was all it took.

DEATH sat back in his fishing chair
aboard his Yacht "Mort Du".
He waited for acceptance;
for the struggle to be through.

DEATH smiled a hideous fleshless smile.
What did one mortal say?
"If your work is your hobby,
It's like you never worked a day."

The Sun rode low in the western sky.
A certain chill invades the air.
DEATH felt the strain in his sinewy arms.
And He shifted in his chair.

It's Time, DEATH thought, to end this sport.
"You will not get away.
I'm glad you made it interesting
Now perhaps it's time to pray"

Just then DEATH felt the line go slack:
Cut through upon a submerged rock.
His prey, still burdened by his hook,
still had time upon the clock.

DEATH surveyed the darkening sea.
as twilight settled on the brine.
DEATH took it philosophically;
We'll meet again another time.