I feel my heart pound,
Yet I do not truly live.
Deep in the ground,
I lay cold, singing, no more.
Ah, but the songs I sang during my life!
Songs of love,
Songs of hate,
I sang a song or two every hour of every day.
I sang until the very day,
That I would be laying in my grave.
I arose from my slumber on that silent morn,
Feeling melancholy and stiff as board.
This odd for me, I mightend add,
In my life I was joyously mad.
This, being the last day of breath I had to breathe it,
Was also the darkest, and the bleakest.
I sang no songs my final day,
Now I rest.
Now I sleep.
The sadness of death is forever,
The worst part,
Such a bore.