Comedie Macabre

My special brand of twisted and dark humor with a dash of nonsense.

Death sat glum at his desk. Upon his bum he did rest as he lifted his pen to spin a tale. Pause, the man forgot his ale.
“We have the hardest jobs.” He seethed. “Undertakers, morticians, then there’s me! Kisses to all who clean up my mess. One it is I must confess.”

From horrid massacres to bloody wars, bludgeoned bodies on the floor. Death was an able and agile man. Efforts to thwart him? He gave barely a damn.
“My line of work is intriguing and neat. I often never leave this seat. The living realm is overrun with helpers it appears. Instead of scythes I should arm them with shears.”

Death loved all. In both sickness and health. His heart and scythe beat in suspicious stealth. He would casually slay his objects of affection.
“By the way my love…” He chimed. “How’s that infection? Maladies and tragedies are a few of my specialties! Modern medicine will never hold me back!”
He vowed to make accredited doctors appear to be quacks.

Death was deemed both a sad man and a madman and no one nayed. Some just settled on the premise he was crazed. Although he’s seen things that made his bite equal to bark, Death had witnessed sights to make him happy as a lark.

Age defying c**k and bull made the skeleton pick at his sküll. Although he paid it no serious mind, he thought humans lost something of the kind.
“Fountain of youth? Forever young?” The skeleton laughed ‘till he hacked his lungs. Postly his chest was bloodied and sore. He refused to install organs forevermore.

Alone in his ballroom Death did exist. Occasionally angry, occasionally pissed. He needed a change of pace to remove the mug from his face. Option one was the grand piano and only one way that could go.
“Do ra me f**k.” The skeleton was out of luck.
He couldn’t find a note or keep a tune. His head was doomed. Or was it? He had one more trick up his sleeve. Something at which he often sneezed.

“Comedy! Comedy!” the bag of bones did shout.
Although his logic had fallacies two ways in and two ways out this particular train of logic momentarily made sense. He hadn’t studied this two pence. 

“Tragedy and comedy the perfect balance to my madness!” the skeleton danced around in a sudden fit of gladness. This narrator isn’t the least bit convinced. Again, no study. Not two pence.

From proud piano to pen and paper Death’s enthusiasm did not taper. In fact, with every step it seemed to increase a spot. Sweat from his forehead he eventually did blot.
“Out of shape but not out of mind!”
Death left health and sanity far behind. But it’s not a narrator’s place to tell him that.
“Shut your trap!”
I can do that.

His moving finger writ, wrote, and hence moved on. He began quiet night, ended early dawn. What Death penned was his proudest creation besides the bubonic plague.
“This cloud be a flop, it could be nouvelle ‘vague’!”

The trippy art of language where the French vague is the English vague. The trick is the “a” it’s all in the gauge. Death was never savvy with a pen. Now the audience wonders what state his comedy is in.

“I think it’s funny! I wrote it with love!”  
The narrator is a critic with words that can shoot turtle doves. Death opened his script to read it once more. He was amused but the narrator needed more.

“Read it to the people! I’m proud of my work!” 

As a narrator the writing gave me a world of hurt. I knew he was looking so I didn’t look back. I decided to give his scribble one little crack.

“When all is won and the day is done, the groom has met his bride. In comes the rain and joy again.
But alas, the b***h just cried.”

It was at that point I, the narrator broke rhyme and exited the story stage left. I quit. 

Author's Note

I know, I made up a few words.