Grim

We have all heard the tales

Of how the reaper comes

To collect the souls

From the rich men to the bums

Carrying them off

To be judged

In the Halls of Verdict

Where their fate is adjudged

But not many have heard the story

Of the one time Death was budged

From his unwavering job

Just with a little kind nudge

Of the little girl who lived to be a hundred

Because she had the gall

To give Him a most glorious blue flower

And named him Grim, best of all

The first friend he ever made

The only friend he had

He visited her every year

And was always glad, not sad

For she always gave him

One more beautiful blue flower

For him to take and add to his collection

The collection reminded him of his Emily Bower.