This is Death’s love song
He takes off his top hat
And then just like that
All the black doves are gone
Just like a black magic trick
They fly away off into the distance
Whilst the grim weeper cries
Black tears of tainted sorrow
Drip and put out his wick
Now his blue soul flame is no longer lit
He burrows his head into volcanic ash sand
Stays there, buried, like a lich ostrich
As dead inside as infertile land
Where he goes, no crops grow
Everything he touches turns into stone
It withers away slowly
Rotting from the inside out
Leaving the poor ol’ reaper
Never with a smile and always with a pout
But what’s it all about?
Why is Death sad and why does he doubt?
It’s a lonely existence to be the bringer of demise
Knowing exactly when everyone and everything will die
And knowing that he hinself will never perish
Eternal and alone
Never dying or able to atone
Everything around him will becometh stone
It’s a hard rocky existence
And so that’s why Death moans
But Death loves so hard still
That he calls upon his murder of crows
To turn the near fallen into ashes and dust
And take upon himself their countless many sorrows
Because this is Death’s love song
Everlasting and long
Dark and grim
Simultaneously right and wrong