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.