He was old and cold and strong and hard
With a bitter contemptuous jaw
Fierce, wrathful, unkind as any,
With anger and hate and rage against many
No warmness beat inside his heart, nor kindness, neither fear
For gods or man, and at his wake, I saw none shed a tear.
He went to extremes, and convinced us he was bad,
But underneath all that anger, I think he was just sad.
Sad and lonely and empty, and drowning in grief,
From living a life that was pointless and brief.