Death and the Miser

There’s one bastard that Death doesn't yet want --
A man He's content to smilingly haunt,
To assure that he hasn't forgotten
What comes. "Maybe when your mind's most rotten,"
He whispers from behind the sickroom door.
The man, a murdering conquistador,
And raper of the widows of the poor,
Cut a priest's throat to settle an old score,
And sold babies to feed a king's prize boar.
Delectable crimes for Death -- no reason
Not to take this human in his season.
His disgust is with the miser's grasping
Love of Death’s own hot and eternal sting.