Death of the Grim Reaper

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A Dark Humorous Poem

The Angel of Death came at midnight,
wearing an ebony cloak,
and when he raised his scythe overhead,
I knew it was time to croak.

I wanted to teach him a lesson,
a taste of his very own strife.
I wanted a bit of revenge, because
the Reaper had taken my life.

He tried to escape through the back door,
but my black cat stood in the way.
The Reaper was superstitious,
I was happy to learn that day.

He dropped his scythe in an instant.
It tumbled fast to the ground,
but he didn’t dare to retrieve it
so long as the cat was around.

I had no body or substance.
All I could do was float.
But I had telepathic ability
and could raise that scythe like a note.

It flew about like a bola,
spinning high overhead,
and when it landed on top of him,
at last the Reaper was dead!