From the high peak of the middle years
We walk downwards slowly but it’s clear.
We lose our parents siblings other kin
Who will now agree we are born to win?
Our bodies stiffen while we’re yet alive
Who will die,atone,does God decide?
From the man he takes the caring wife
The heart itself will harden in the strife
Last Man standing is a bag of bones
In his grave the king decays alone.
How my heart sings 