He licks his fingers
And turns the page;
His eyebrows twitch,
They twist in rage



He slams the newspaper -
Smashes it to the floor;
He stands up madly
And runs for the door!



He yanks on his boots -
Hat and staff equipped,
He emerges smelling of Death
Ascending from the crypt



He makes his way to me
His beard a twisted flame
Of golden and red braids;
Like a wizard from a game



He licks his lips,
He thinks some more,
Then starts speaking,
Recalling all the gore,


" The car will be a Chevy,
It will hit you from behind,
It will kill you on impact
And leave the passenger blind,



Noon-day tomorrow,
Tomorrow's newspaper said,
Better avoid the highway,
Better stay in bed,"



He turned away from me,
Leaving me with the surprise
Of having witnessed the death
Of myself before my eyes!



He walks away quite grandly,
Tipping his hat to passerby,
But not to all of them,
Just those that will soon die.