I love the idea of death,
Knowing I’ll be there soon,
And nothing will be left of me,
Except for an overgrown tomb,
And after many years,
When the future’s comes round,
And my gravestone’s long forgotten,
I’ll lay in a deserted plot,
On a deserted lot,
With lots of grass around it.

Neath the cold and the dark,
Not even a spark,
Of light,
Around my body lifeless.
Nothing left of me soon,
Under that overgrown tomb,
Except lots of grass around it.

-T