The Black Death

 

Silent reaper riding vermin back

Bringing silence to a corpse with the Death of Black

Strange Merchant, Escaping Italian saint

On the doors of the wretched, crosses of dark paint

 

Vile rosy, putrid rings of red

Ashes! Ashes! Gasp, my love, your dead!

Cursed are the ones who leave, Blessed who choose to stay

Streets of London, roads of París, all are in array

 

Nobles bow to the form of the reaper, Holy men kiss his scythe

Men and women dance with him, yet all are born to die

Look upon the white of his skull, the bone that's cracked and scorn

And listen as he speaks to you, "Death is but a door..."