Laid in pools of his living blood,
as his heart sobs close to death,
liquor's swift judgement to death,
while travelling in the rainy flood.
Perhaps when diseases worsen the grief,
drilling down the spine with no grease,
yet still smokes and drugs with no cease,
then length of life could be so brief.
High speed got him close to angels,
as he tranverse upward towards heavens,
sight of lanes ahead are pairs of seven,
in all recklessness of the highway devil.
Didn't you see without haste?
and perceive in clear senses?
that all injuries and damages of your graves?
are warnings of every living day?
However (he) despises the symbols of the eyes,
and strains of bodily weakness,
but hope to thrive in existence,
while death was the final sprook.