Death knocks upon my door,
Not an obtruder, truth told.
Never before has a suitor been more prompt, more proud to court me.
I asked his boneyard hand by closet garotte.
Be his sepulcher arms inviting,
His embrace a lurid comfort proffer,
I may not come home till morning,
I may not come home till morning.
I may not come home.
Toby Hemker - Poetry 