Once it was, they thought me dead.
But in a coma, I lay instead.
I could hear the plans they made
and how it was to rest I would lay.

Its the burial that I fear.
That there be no ones ear to hear.
When crazed, I scream, scratch and claw,
into the coffin wood, from my fingers blood draws.

Unable I, to move but a scant few inches.
In total darkness my mind unhitches.
drowning in my own tears I quake.
Gasping, preying, begging, promises I make.

Yes, its the burial that I fear.

So it is that I vow,
I will come back somehow
and haunt those that throw the dirt,
upon my coffin, when I'm alert.

If you want peace after my demise,
cremation it is, would be most wise.
For then it is my spirit sets free
and that I truly am, dead as can be.