I suppose it's inevitable that my mind should run on such things.
Missed Appointment
The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
His glasses slid along his nose.
‘It's Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
The voice was colder than the stones.
It froze the marrow of my bones.
But I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.
As you were. What follows is now the definitive version.
Missed Appointment
The doorbell rang. I caught my breath.
I drew the bolt and it was Death.
He fumbled in his cloak and took
From some recess a little book.
He put his glasses on his nose.
‘It’s Mr Whitworth, I suppose.’
A frosty smile played on his lips
That chilled me to my fingertips,
So I replied in breezy tones,
‘No Whitworth here. My name is Jones.'
Whitworth resides at forty-seven,
An ancient shag, and ripe for Heaven,
His mind long gone, his body bent.’
Death nodded, tipped his hat and went.
Jones passed away that very night.
I sent a wreath, as well I might.
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