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Description
That piece of fabric flaps in the wind,
The only warning that he descends,
That he rides his black horse into town.

But maybe the scream of the banshee,
Or the washerwoman's reflection
Was what warned the one destined to die,
That the reaper was on his trail.

He keeps his hellhounds at his side,
Leashed on a chain of blue fire -
Which some call hellfire,
But the name isn't what matters here.

Try to run or hide
His hounds shall sniff out their quarry,
And rip it to shreds,
Dragging it screaming if not dead,
Back to their master.

Master of the grave and death,
He is the reaper,
With death in his hand.