Death, be not so proud that I can't have a drink with you sometime.

I mean you can't be too busy for a drink;
even you must get plastered sometimes, right?
Between the reaping and the haunting and the...

Come on. It's been five days.
And before that, fifteen years.
Don't you ever check your messages?

Alright, then. No alarms. It's me again.
Just me.
You know my name, serial number, weight
and from what door I'll take my final exit.
The Devil's in the deets, they say
so I'll move on.

I have losses, sure
who doesn't, Death?
But I'm not really one for grudges.
It ain't Christian.
And existential questions really aren't my strength.
I'd rather watch Golden Girls and do the crosswords.
Bea Arthur's more my barrel than Camus.

Look, Death.
I am too much like what I am.
And now I'm asking for a drink with you.
Hello, goodbye. It really is that simple.
I don't go out much, and I'm always here
or at the grocery store or my PO Box.
You don't need a Pinkerton man to track me down.

So if you're really man beneath that cape
and not a sack of bones, then why not
bite the bullet, as it were, and join me?
I'll buy you bourbon, and we'll listen to Cole Porter
as I stir my cosmopolitan (the finest in Kentucky
all against my doctor's orders).

It's me again. Your machine cuts me off.
I can't imagine why anyone calls you
Being so scared. Goodness, but me?
I'm fascinated, really, by your eyes.
They say you don't have any, but
people will say the darndest things when they're afraid.
And I do not fear
your eyes and your hands.
Because I've seen them at work,
even though I wasn't supposed to notice
the skill with which you snuffed out breath.

They're like rakes, pale and slender and efficient.
What can I say? I've always liked neat lawns.
Especially now I can't quite move the rake, the hoe
The lawn mower —

Look, Death. It's getting old.
And so am I.
Your machine has cut me off for years.
At first, well that made sense.
But now I can't see why.

He's long since gone. I hardly need to say,
you were there that day, and so was I.
And I don't want an answer, no matter what you think.

This world's a fragile place. Ladders slip in the rain,
bodies fall through space
there really is no reason.
None that I care to search for, anyway
I'm too happy watching Jeopardy,
And tending my azaleas.

The way I see it,
You're lonely, so am I.
This is a lonely planet when husbands and wives die.
And though you know better than me the scope and sweep
What number on the wheel of fortune my arrow will mark,
I know the answer better than some folks.

I'm going to die someday.

But the category's Fun and Games
Or Leisure
And the question, Alex, is not why
But only, for one hour of one night,
Are you willing to be so human you could cry?