His lifeline severed, purple lips induced,
Death claims his name forever tonight,
Like the solemn plague of a wilted red rose;
The scenery of blackened veils masks beauty,
It allures a serenade of sorrowful symphonies;
The aftermath of this dead man—
Rapport of fate, words now dead silent;
Inhaling the grief, never bearing this scene—
Of roses upon a corpse.

This death’s wrath when it decays the senses,
Never tends to muffle moaning cries,
While impulsing hearts with infernal depression;
The enervation of this dead man’s eyes,
Left to soak in a cease pool of his deterioration,
His casket created an unfortunate widow—
Her soul stripped of pure love refrained hate,
This perdition aroused a disturbed emotion—
Of roses upon a corpse.

Life’s too delicate to emerge from darkness,
And too desirable to enter into the light;
Now a man without a shadow of fear or faith,
And no regrets of fading, decaying or suffocating;
Within the hands of him, once a beautiful rose,
To convey his love for succeeding generations,
Now a sorrowful flower on a dead man;
But the bed of skeletons welcomes this scene—
Of roses upon a corpse.