As I lie here I feel quite sick,
my oozing wounds begin to stick.
Lots of black flies have come to rest,
upon my head and on my chest.
I have something, some dread disease,
my bed is home to lots of fleas.
I have green sores from head to toe,
they say today’s my time to go.
I lie here sick, I lie here dead,
I didn’t make it out of bed.
My fate is heaven, maybe hell,
or will they leave me here to smell?
In my coffin they say I’ll rot,
or in some dark and evil plot.
Under the ground my bones they put,
stripped of flesh from skull to foot.