My mind is blank,
As I write this verse,
though it would be,
I'm in a hearse.

I was pushed in a stank*,
and left to rot,
and when I was found,
I was covered in trot.

A terrible woe
has befallen me,
and I don't think anyone will come.
Not even family.

I float around and I see my beau,
goodness, it's her!
She's sad, but gorgeous,
and wearing faux fur.

I've left her behind,
the only woman who I ever loved,
and her tears she's wiping,
with a hand, begloved.

Why? Was this the way it was designed?
Death, you're an arsehole.
I had so much left to give,
now I'm stuck here, rotting in this hole.

No lights.
No love.
Just a bunch of frights,
and dirt, around and above.

*Stank is a Scottish word, meaning drain.