Death is such a painful stain,
That leaves your heart weak and mean,
Full of anger, and scornful pain,
Emerging from the bellows of your deeply hurting vein.
Without notice a novice death has been strained,
that has been duged out before it's time.
Silence also stain a page,
Blank, without any curiosity,
An uncanny, biased, road,
Lonely with emotional vexation.
'Death' it screams into the air,
'Death' it hallows unto the earth.
Such a massive painful broad,
To be burdened incredulously,
Laughing at both the living and the dead contemptuously,
With impertinent of its' grain, scarface, and bewildered.
Death is such complacently show.
Every known figure, corner and exasperated pain.
Which leaves takes a lop of your own caubogue heart.
Death is no joke,
not a six-Spense hoakse.
It is abbreviated as an internal rest,
Which niceties, a pascal of phrase.