[i]Shave with Death[/i]
With buzzing blades beside my ear,
and razor pressed against my neck,
my throat was pale hoarse hiding fear,
as Death's sharp fingers searched for specks,

The rebels had been blown away,
their traitor blood had dyed the soil,
yet then my hair was growing grey,
as Death drew fast her curling coil,

on the counter stood with style
a frame beside a spraying gun,
inside my throat was churning bile,
inside the frame, Death's darling son,

A final trim to end the war,
and on my nape a winter's breath—
but stepping through Death's exit door,
I fled, unharmed, my shave with Death.