The Coffin Maker

He lived with his son,
He was a businessman,
traded with death.
He was a coffin-maker.

He danced with joy,
With every death.
It brought him happiness,
And his daily bread.

He saved every penny ,
For his only son,
Innocent and bright,
Like the morning sun.

A fine morning,
the church bell rang thrice,
A death, he thought.
Smiled, happily.

He returned home,
Humming a tune.
Crowds were swarming,
In his courtyard.

He saw an innocent face
Clad in white ,
cold as ice
which knew no vice.

He made coffins to earn a living,
And the last one he made,
Was for his reason to live.
Who lay asleep, never to wake up.

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