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The Fear Stings
I passed away long years ago
and death gave me all that I posses,
a comfy berth free of rent and tax, though,
being incomeless that could induce some stress.
I have a box to keep my bones within
a roof composed of good old English turf,
and here I lie and the dead long day sing
of the second coming and my rebirth.
I have sang all the old songs, composed anew,
and still I lie and still I sing,
although the notes are now lower and few,
as my bones return to dust, the fear stings.
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