To the Tune of Dust Thou Art and To Dust Returnest

(I still admire Shakespearean classic English as it sounded more poetic so I wrote this in that way) O' man thou erecteth palaces, castles and courts while on death a mere grave sufficeth thee How magnificent and formidable thou maketh thy forts in thy wish to make both future and history. Thou who art' accustomed to mighty marble walls and mansions of mirror, silver and gold Thy grave shalt be small compared to palatial halls even if a thousand demons it may hold. Not a coin or even half a coin of gold wilt thou take with thee to thy empty earthen grave All that shalt ye leave behind for others to behold and now shalt ye fear though ere thou hath been brave. Thy innards shalt merge with mere earth soil and sand No matter now if ye dwelled in huts or palaces of gold Thy grave shalt occupy the tiniest portion of thy land From the warmth of quilted beds wilt thee lie in the cold. Thus ere ye consider founding, building thy imposing edifice a homeless vagrant if ye shelter in thine care Knowing our lives art' but on a mere precipice while the joy of giving doth give a joy beyond compare! Death's a journey but no provisions can ye take along and fold How shalt ye respond when it inevitably calls? Our skeletal bones, a simple ditch shalt amass and hold as the living walk all over us with gentle footfalls. Shakespeare too returned to dust as hath saith he and while many might abandon his archaic style yet his quill shalt vie for soul-like immortality for his works might flow on as does the old Nile