How darkly the dark hand met his end.
He was withered and boney, exposed for a phoney.
But we heed the last words that he penned:
Haste to disgrace a traitor. Do not wait ‘til later.
I don’t think that you’ve got to pretend.
I see God in birds and Satan in long words.
But I know what you need in a friend.
So now when I leave you,
I hope I won’t see you again.