Death decks out in painful forms,
staggered hours and waiting lines,
fighting foul earth winds and storms,
searching for more grand designs.

Man is fruitless, funny, hollow,
trapped inside a shell of time.
Leaders fall and nations follow.
Death alone can solve the rhyme.

Tick on, clock with broken hands.
Comfort ages. Sorrow stands.
Hope eternal, spring anew,
as we bid our time adieu.

Push a button for a vision.
Drop a coin into a slot.
Man approaches his decision.
Time is slow but death is not.

Dig ye deep and dig ye plenty.
No one knows his length of stay.
Some bow out at ten or twenty.
Others crawl toward judgement day.