Plight of the Wight

Never again to know fresh air, Combing worms from my matted hair. No one remains who’d ever care — Tied to my grave, this lonesome baire. I must escape the sun’s harsh glare, Tread carefully down crumbling stair, Descend into my crypt just there, Where I sit alone in dark despair. Upon my ancient worm-eaten chair, Inside my vaulted charnel house lair, Such a sad and accursed affair — Never to rest, always aware. This kind of death is so unfair: No converse, no song, no whispered prayer. A thousand lifetimes in disrepair, Unattended, solus, solitaire. Harshest sentence beyond compare, Caught in this endless undeath snare. Naught to do but eternity stare — And comb the damn worms from my hair.