For all those times you shot me dead,
and laid my body upon the bed--
heart still beating, but pretend
it was a wound you could not mend--
I shook you off, I shot you back,
and as we fell, we laughed and laughed...
But even when the game was done,
you saw another yet to come.
Yet how romantic was that dream;
dark to you it did not seem;
there was no fear to fill each day--
Death was still so far away.
Until arrived that letter white,
wearing words as black as night,
that led me to your fresh-dug grave,
and buried thus your dream once brave.