The Grim Reaper II

Turn off the oxygen.
His vital statistics are going no where fast,
Even his eyes are gone.

Going to need the fridge,
Roll him on to the stretcher,
Is he dead or dying?
Must be dying?

Roll him towards me,
Everybody hit the oxygen, he’s coming back,
Arms flop out,
Prepare to clap his chest with those heart racers,
Easy,
Rest, one, two, three – Hit.