Words by Christian Mott

Death goes to a Halloween party;
no one knows who he is.
He pours himself a pumpkin ale
only to watch it fizz. 
With hours passing idly by,
lurking through the crowd,
he scowls at their merriment
and thinks the music loud.
He keeps off to the corners
taking in the vulgar dances.
He serves a Girl a piece of cake
and ponders Her advances. 

Death goes to a Halloween party;
everyone knows he’s there.
Without a word all night,
a few begin to stare. 
“He gave me this,” She says
as She takes a bite of cake.
It was dry and tasted funny.
It crumbled yet didn’t break.
All begin to ask around, 
Is there anyone who’s heard
who this hooded figure is?
No one knew him, not a word. 

Death goes to a Halloween party;
and no one really knows
how his face could be so dark,
how his hands are merely bones.
The people, one by one, 
begin to drop like flies.
Before Her cake is gone,
She falls down and dies.
The rest begin to notice
whose bodies were deserted,
and lying all around
are men with whom She’d flirted. 

eath goes to a Halloween party;
dead bodies on the floor.
One kneels among friends,
his face looking sore. 
“Who could’ve done this?
Tell me, was it you?”
Death lifts his bony finger
and points across the room.
There Her husband stands,
his back arched in a hunch,
with a bottle labeled “Poison”
ouring into the punch.