They wrote me a statement of names and number, 

Auditing my life, reporting it's loss and ruin,

making my mind's clear clouds darken with thunder,

They wrote me a bill of death, time dated soon,

So I sought deals with my pride's devils in vain, 

for report after report kept saying the same.

"Your day is due, your assets are forfeit,

Your life is rue, did you forget,

Your crass carelessness with sensuality,

and how it led to this fatality,

of our dangling sword above your head,

suspended by your disbelief that you'd shed,

your life away so that all remaining,

are embers of your soul."

"So hand over your spirits dim glow,

so that the reaper we report to might sow,

it's golden glowing seeds, so that in time,

his gracelessness may claim your last smile,

your last of 'what's rightfully mine' ".

So I became my fate's chattel,

indebted in servitude to the chains he'd linked,

bound so they'd not rattle,

but were constantly cool and so distinct,

that they imitated his cold clutch.