The Repo Man Called For You: His Name Was 'Mr Parkinson'
Last updated: September 2020
I’m sorry that I missed you.
I’m sorry you were late,
I’ll catch you when you’re next in view,
Or just about to emigrate,
Yes, I’m the promised man,
I’m the Last Post man.
I left my card in your letterbox,
So please don’t scream or shout,
Or close your doors, or change the locks,
I’ll always be about.
I’m the repo man
Yes, your repo man.
I’m the guy you spotted on the road
Who almost isn’t there,
The old guy in the musty clothes
Who’s gasping out for air.
I’m the no hope man
The fast disappearing man.
I’m the one you least expect,
When your window blinds are down,
My eyes are stained, and sorrow flecked,
I’m the man in sombre brown.
I’m the calling card man,
The joker in the pack man.
My invitation to the dance
Is almost every place.
My calling cards are edged with black,
And on the obverse there‘s a space,
So you can call me back.
I’m the endgame man,
The post – it - note man.
I’ll book you in for Tuesday next;
Your name is in my book.
You’ll know me by my twisted look,
The one you least expect.
I’m the nemo man,
The man by any other name man.
I’m the person who you never met,
The one who came too late,
The author of catastrophes,
The harbinger of fate.
For I’m the nowhere man,
The hard to bear man.
I’m the man who walks without a sound,
The man in the Pacamac,
The Father Christmas come to town
With babes tied in his sack.
I’m the exit man,
The many sorrows man.
I’m the guy who comes at eight
You’d arranged to see at ten,
The man you’ve dodged and learned to hate,
And you won’t be coming back again,
For I’m the late entry man
The post haste man.
I’m the man who steps right in
Where angels fear to tread.
The demon in the rubbish bin
Who fills your dreams with dread.
I’m the odd job man.,
The dread, dead knock on the door man.
Some meet me when they’re very young,
And others when they’re old.
My eyes are blue and deadly cold,
My lips are white and tightly spun,
With broken hearts, I’m told.
I’m the dead - end man,
The soul repossession man.
My flesh peels off like parchment,
My heart is sooty black.
They’ll say it’s sad you ever went
But you won’t be coming here again,
And won’t be coming back.
For I’m the end of the line man,
The end of time man.
When all’s well that ends well,
You’ll know I’ll wait for you,
When your throat or tongue begin to swell
Or your lips start turning blue,
For I’m the not forgotten man,
The unforgettable blue man.
It’s me who keeps the numbers down.
You’ll know when I’m around.
I’m the one who’s coming here for tea,
You’ll know it’s me,
You’ll hear my shuffling sound,
My step like slow eternity,
My voice like stifled sound.
I’m the clown with the death mask,
And the leprous left hand.
I’m the long - forgotten man
They never thought to ask.
Yes, I’m the groundhog man.
I hover on the motorways,
Seeking out the dead by chance,
Hoping you’ll glimpse my skull face there
And my bone - rattling dance.
I’m the dread collector,
The chalk white spectre man
I’ll seek you here, I’ll seek you there,
I’ll seek you everywhere.
I’ll seek you when you’re cold and bare,
And your heart fills with despair.
I’m the finishing line man,
The Exocet missile man.
You’ll wish you hadn’t seen me
When I show up in the crowd,
For you’ll never then be free of me,
And then I’ll shout out loud:
‘I’m the grim reaper; the mortician man;
The long dead, Rip Van Winkle sleeper man,
And I’ve come to collect you,
And I’ll not forget you.
My name is MR PARKINSON,
And my scythe is ready in my hand.
-Kelvin I Jones
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