My Hearse Paroles

Its rotting descent.

Fickle the flame,

As chill it brings;

Tired and weary

As the raven sings.

My time has come

And bitter is the taste.

My time, it seems,

Is met with haste.

So carry me softly
In the earth I lay.

Grieve me not,

I have no remorse for I have arrived.