The wind whistles hard
in my own backyard
with a haunting tune.

No birds fly by in
the afternoon wind
cause the sky’s ashen
and the past won’t come
back in a flash again.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Corpses sit in their
own piles of ****,
with no one left to
remember all of it.
The rot and the rage
killing king plague
that took over this place.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

Poison in the ground,
silence is the sound
that’s most harrowing,
rivers run their course
but time finds hope
always narrowing.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.

I will be the last
child to tell you of
our strange tragic past,
the final recorded
voice that afforded
no hope or recourse,
cause life is the wife
from which we all got
a final divorce.

Who is to blame
when the reaper
comes to claim
the body from the flame.
That’s a deadman’s game.