He rides through town in head-to-toe black,
A skeleton soul with a ghostly knack.
No horse, no cart, no thunderous roar—
Just e-scooter wheels and a whisper of gore.
His scythe is strapped with a bungee cord,
He hums a tune as he reaps the horde.
Helmet laws? He doesn’t care.
What’s the worst—he’ll lose his hair?
He zips past joggers, dogs, and teens,
Harvesting souls in the bike lane scenes.
A busker screams, “The end is nigh!”
He just shrugs and scoots on by.
He drifted left. You didn’t yield.
Now you’re a whisper in a poppy field.
So signal twice and check your blind,
Or Death-on-Wheels might roll behind.