The Mortician sees his future

Daily, laid out on a slab, again, again

Day in day out. It must get most peculiar

To see your future in such bright light

On loop, ad nauseum, 'til surely

Something seers it to the eyes

To play each night behind

His gaze, until one day its prophecy

Comes true, such a queer and icy feel.

Like a metal slab on the cheek

Mr. Mortician will be feeling

Right up until the shadows turn real

And it happens.