The poet is
dead, long live the poet.
So some are
happy and some are sad.
As he won’t
write his thoughts anymore.
As he won’t
sing those truths anymore.
And few
said, he died so young, died so soon.
Others snapped
in, as they never liked his tune.
The king is
happy and so his men.
As they
never liked to be challenged in their own den.
How he died
it’s still a mystery, still unknown.
Some say by sword,
some say by poison.
Yet I know
all about, because the dead never lie.
Its verse
which left him, left the poet in me to die.
