From what, I do not know,
Perhaps I'll fall and hit my head and die,
Because my blood's too low,
People will say it's such a tragic thing,
That I should die so young,
'fore my prime, after which it would be fine,
For, at least, my swan song would have been sung,
Little do they know that my coda's done,
Nor will it e'er exist,
I've lived a thousand lives inside my head,
Far too many to list,
I'm good to go,
How many can say that,
Without the accolades to prove they did,
Something worth making their coming death apt?
No comments:
Post a Comment