(In reply to John Donne’s sonnet Death is not proud)

Me, I’m not proud, mighty or dreadful,
For I myself fear me,
I kill, I’m sinful,
I fear god may kill me,

Right thee art, I’m useless today,
For man ain’t like me,
Today I have no role to play,
Because only thee kill thee,

In the Diwali lights and Crackers,
There is more sorrow than joy,
For crackers overthrow me,
They have made me a mere toy,

But thee too art wrong,
For I never puffed my chest,
I am a sinner ashamed and helpless,
It’s god who does the rest,

Me, I’m a slave,
Not only to kings, chance, desperate men and fate,
But to you Oh Human,
I’m sure you’ll like to debate,

Thee cannot phone me nor mail,
For I’m a small sinful thing,
Nobody likes me like god,
For whom you all sing

-Death