How would you like your death announced?
In joyous bells, sweet song through the town
or a solemn dirge, sung in an otherwise quiet church?
Don't mind me much, it's completely your choice
but I must make a sale you see.
Whether they throw flowers and toast to your glory
Whether they dress in black and weep til morning
it makes no difference to me
If the fanfare isn't your thing
obscurity is always an option
But an ego, such a fragile thing, can't bear it
A forgotten grave where moss makes its home
too melodramatic for me
Alas, you humans are so strange
There's a ticking
Can you hear it?
It seems your time is fast approaching
So what is your choice
poor soul so close to the end?
Is it joy?
Is it sorrow?
Or a darkness with no light?
I don't mean to rush, but there's the sake of my sale
What's left for you to mend?
And the reaper will not be kept waiting