Funeral Song

When fancy does he come within one's life, A candle gently placed goes out so quick. Of course this is his job, yet one so rife, And pain he caused to some in just a flick. A march where veils can barely hide their tears That rains could not compare their dreary wails; No song can show the loss that sums all fears, No hollow branch to hold the noose that fails. Beneath the branch where he would make his stand, To rub the names of those who have long passed, Who paid their debts in kind beneath the land— To sow it with their flesh whose life have passed: The rain is sly to time their deaths in gloom, His song's machined—and he will be their groom.