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A shy thing, all bathed in mint
A brush of of color? Just a hint
A cold grey scythe, much too big
A hole in the ground, no-one to dig
Erica, a sweet soft name
One that isn’t really plain
Softly spoken, listen close
Listen to the things she knows
She is the rider known as Death
Her part is one that I confess
Is the part that takes its toll
It’s all about a person’s soul
It wears you down, the thing of Death
And if done wrong leaves a terrible mess
But this is her role, the quite girl
Has taken in in such a swirl
The pale rider, the fourth one yes?
Her scythe, the mint, the girl of Death.