It would only be a matter of time that we
Would realize that death was something that was real
How would it end? In cubicles of hellfire or a lake of cool

Ice? Would we be pushing boulders for eternity, or would we
Be judged by the weight of a feather? We left
Our dreams behind, to be embraced by a school

Of souls swimming in the river styx, fighting each other. We
Could’ve have entered the pits where the darkest demons lurk
Or we could have crossed the gates of Valhalla. But we were too late.

We don’t remember how we died, whether it was by war, or plague, or time. We
Could’ve been a legendary hero who would strike
Down the enemies of our tribe. But one fact is straight:

Death doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if we
Are saints. Whether we help, pray, or sing
It doesn’t care if we are sinners, whether we commit one sin

Or one thousand sins. We go to the same place regardless. We
Don’t enter into Paradise, because no one on the Earth is worthy. Thin
Cadavers drowned underneath dirt are our reward. The gin

Of the necromancers is what we will drink in the end. We
Don’t know how long we have in this colorful world, full of Jazz
And sun and people. But we can say one thing, whether in October or June

We die soon. We
Die soon. We die
Soon. We die soon.