He's the death of the party
swinging his scythe gloomily
to the rhythmic sound
of the drums menacing pound,
as it flows out of the speakers
and through the ground.
He feels his bones shake,
reverberate
to the musical earthquake,
as the thunderous chorus approaches.
He bends down like a locust
and bam. He pounces.
Pogoing, he bounces.
Head banging along
to the sonorous beat of the song.
Scythe being strummed like a guitar.
He is the death of the party,
some kinda superstar.
He twists,
Hip bones gyrating
he slices
and he kills the lights,
He swings again
and the lady beside
falls to her knees,
cut down in her prime
as her lifeline slides.
The crowd mill around the bar,
too busy trying to be seen.
Oblivious to the black and white blur
with steel-silver sheen.
Like a tornado he spins through
and the sound
of smashed glasses fills the room.
Exhausted now,
this work plays havoc with your wrist,
he has only one or two more
to tick off his list.
Dancing for eternity.
Enjoy your final night of revelry.
Like a bony ninja he strikes,
bang, bang, bang
the bodies drop.
Now just the DJ for the chop.
The sound of vinyl scratching,
played by the scythes needle-like point.
He spins the best tunes, they haunt.
He screams from inside his rib cage,
a strange mixture of joy and rage.
It's my party, you'll die if I want you to.
Now please everybody form an orderly queue,
there is a long journey ahead of you.
Thanks for reading
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