Thy heart is stiff and like a desert dry,
Thy hath engraved thy tombstone's name.
Thy should not ask a blowing willow why...
Thy good God knows, you made yourself to die.

See life and joy for you hath never been the same.
Thy stand each day and ev'ry minute cry.
Thy wanted but a life of kingly fame...
A shortcut death, now who are ye to blame.

Lachrymose! Hath been thy slave and king,
Lachrymose! That hath defined thine life.
And now you curseth the black crow that sing...
Thy sang of death, and death has such a sting.

A letter writ, now jot thee to thine wife.
About your life, about your everything.
Thy history, about thine sin and strife...
The first line had her say she's heard enough.

My prime of youth is frozen with my faults.
My feast of joy, hath happiness a gap.
My crop of corn is tares availing naughts...
My wasted life: An exodus of hope.