On a cheerful day when birdsong filled the sky,
Aunt Mary was weaving a wondrous cloth up high.
Amidst diligent work and sewing's delight,
Her fingers danced near the needle so tight,
But nothing could deter her, no matter the cry,
She could go days on end without a single pie.
The tailor's torment seemed endless, they say,
Yet she wove the fabric for a cape in her own way,
Until the brilliant cloth was finally complete,
For Aunt Mary, the grim reaper came to greet.
He took her but left the fabric behind,
Then the king came, and it was his to find.
The cloak served the monarch for many a year,
Proudly worn, it withstood every test, we hear.
The ruler prepared for his final campaign,
As the fabric of his regal robe began to wane.
He discarded it and donned his armor so bold,
Off to battle he went, where fate would unfold.
The silky, soft material found a new hand,
A talented artist who took a stand,
With delicate strokes of the brush, he did grace,
Creating the world's most beautiful embrace.
Cotton danced lightly on its surface so white,
But during an attack in the darkest of night,
The artist was attacked, and his life they did steal,
Despite diabetes, he consumed many a meal.
Next, the silk transformed into a canvas so fine,
Acquired by a talent, not some amateur of design.
With fine brushstrokes, he treated it right,
Creating the world's most beautiful light.
Cotton spread gently over the white surface here,
But during an external attack that was severe,
The artist was assaulted, his life they did take,
And the masterpiece from him they did break.
The painting was stolen, ruthlessly it was swayed,
And their leader cleaned his boots with the fabric displayed.
This shoeshine boy, dear and quite meek,
From whom fate had already taken much, so to speak,
Continued to use the cloth, once noble and bright,
To wipe away dirt from shoes day and night.
One day, he received a tip so slight,
Which he spent the next day, no need for foresight.
As he left the market with the old cloth in hand,
A wagon struck him, ending his stand.
In the dust lay the once-famous, then noble, artist's shroud,
Until the reaper arrived, silent and proud,
He wrapped it around his neck, dark as coal,
Raised his hood, and vanished, taking a toll.
Disappearing into the distance, away he did trot,
With a scythe in hand, the Grim Reaper forgot not,
Took the fabric with him, stained by many a life lost,
As it had witnessed countless lives it had cost.
