Death dies and there is a little funeral.
But he can’t die, he thinks,
Who will come for me?
But he can’t think, something else thinks,
Death is dead and has no mind.
Black was his favorite color.
His cloak was black, the space
In his skull where eyes would normally be.
In death’s heaven, you sleep on black sheets,
Play a black harp and eat devil’s food cake.
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