A scythe gleams in the dark

And a bony hand clutches the handle.

Out of the shadows he comes

With a target in his sight.

Death has come to that door.

He struck it down with his fist.

Black tattered cloak conceals

His grin with an evil twist.

The victim, unaware,

A sheep from the flock,

Their time has come

To go to the slaughterer’s stockade.