Cyril coughed politely,
Then pointed at the game.
His opponent looked up sulkily.
Each year he was the same.
All Hallows Eve, thought Cyril,
It always made Death glum.
No one ever stopped to think,
That he'd like to have some fun.
He'd never bobbed for apples,
Or gone out trick or treating.
Although he often went to Earth,
His visits were too fleeting.
It was hard to get good fancy dress,
Because he was so thin,
But even in his work clothes,
He'd surely fit right in.
But no, he had to stay and work.
Every hour of every day.
For the whole of living memory,
It'd always been this way.
Such is the lot of those who serve.
Who work away behind the scenes.
A vital role for vital souls,
But take time off? Yeah, in your dreams.
Death touched a finger to a pawn.
A bell rang out from by the door.
It was the first job of the night,
And Cyril knew there would be more.
He gave a sigh, then stood.
He grasped his favourite scythe,
Did up his cloak and raised his hood,
And glanced behind with weary eyes.
Cyril didn't envy Death,
Forever the outsider.
But in some ways he could empathise,
As Cyril was a spider.