Church bells toll a white procession black,
Faded epitaph on patina plaque.
A providence of granite crumbled stone,
Ancient hypocrisy for scribed tome.
It is simple to abtain the city key,
Cause nothing within mortality is free.
Come lay in a bed of satin and pine,
Reserved when out of time.
Enter the weathered cast iron gate,
The hurst, your limo drives to the estate.
Windswept flowers solemnly mourn,
Roses red on the graves adorn.
Fresh air composed of decay,
What do you expect anyway?
You've already forsaken your breath,
you won't smell a thing in death.