Black cloak
and scythe are
gone and his
thin countenance
replaced
he lies there
bloated
greasy
mat of hair splayed
across his forehead
skin stretched
tight over rolls
of plenty
not the dry whisper
of rustled leaves
the gurgle of
cream and suger
a laugh crawls past
large lips to
tumble down his chins
death finds us now
not in our want
but in
the luxury of
our pleasures
