The Garden Plot on Baker's Street

I like to bury little things, hoping someone will find them.
I like to bury my heart and find out if I will be condemned.
Maybe the rotting muscle, with help the plants grow strong.
Maybe I can use my heart, to fuel another's song.
People are like songbirds, singing for a variety of reasons.
Some sing love, some sing hate, others just sing treasons.
Bury me now, beneath the dirt where the worms are silent.
Because aiding another is all I need to be content.
Live on, be strong, be better than anyone, everyone, else.
That's all I wish, all I need, before the moment melts.