We are born, with nowhere to go but into death's arms.
Milestones lay ahead to meet us as we get older.
Sweet sixteen, the key to the door, getting blind drunk,
and ending up on the floor.
Marriage, divorce, a kid or three, slowly you fill up the ancestry tree.
Not understanding that as we get older, we begin to get colder.
Colder and closer to the grave.
The grave awaits, if lucky to live a span of time.
But spare a thought for those that are caught
by the reaper early.
The murdered, the suicides, the accidents, the ill,
all have been called to return to him.
All have been, Born to die.