The Hollow’s Head Man

A Grim Start for the Reaper

————

As an infant he nursed at the breast

of a harpy who’s fierce, feathered chest

seethed venom most toxic.

It’s not paradoxic

her face ensconced Xanthippe’s crest.

While dressed in a raiment quite mild,

by which all the monks were beguiled,

this camouflaged habit

helped her snatch the abbot

encharged with the care of the child.

By malevolent rights of her coven,

he was cooked in an ancient Dutch oven.

Chicken-soup for dead souls,

it burned hotter than coals.

Incantations of “Nothin’ says lovin’.”

He was bathed in this warm, bloody soup

and his first sip of milk had a scoop.

This miasma of verma

expunged epiderma—

his vertex would never recoup.

As a young lad he envied good Yorick,

his younger friend, also folkloric,

who kept skin and head

till long past he was dead

as we’ve learned from hist’ries categoric.

One day he went up a high hill

with young Eve (though the song calls her Jill),

but when they laid down

(her’s long lost), lost his crown—

’midst the blueberries, he found his thrill.

Since then, he has worn a dark cloak,

and his hood covers pate of hard oak.

Eerie grin carved by hand,

as he travels the land

he can scythe-up your soul with one stroke.

The Grim Reaper, who can’t get ahead,

wants a skull, though his body is dead.

In Sleepy, Ohio,

he rode a caballo

but got jack-o’-lanterns instead.

He was there ’fore the first war’d begun;

he ran both the Big Wars, II and I.

From Genghis’ sorrow

till long past tomorrow;

no man is exempt ’neath the sun.

When all’s said and done, none surmounts

the Dark Artisan, yet he discounts

all his skills with his tools

for he tells all us fools,

“It’s the Scythe of the Reaper that counts.”

By Ken Gosse

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