Death is ironic

When I die

Let the hounds of Hell eat well that night

When I die

Let the wolves out to feast on me

On the melted wax that was my body

On the bones that marked my territory

Let the jungle cats rest their eyes on my remains

As the vultures pick at my busted veins

When I am killed

Let no god shed a tear for me

When I am killed

Let the devil laugh at the irony

Let Lucifer hold my memorial

In the living room of the fallen saints

Let the gods struggle to see my body

As they’re kept out of hells gates

When I am buried

Toss in the thorns of the flowers you throw

When I am buried

Dampen the dirt with gasoline, strike the match and go

Make sure my bones are shattered and stung

Make sure I look ready to meet my maker

Make sure my corpse look exquisite and dirty

Make sure I’m buried with my good friend, rum

When I am risen

Run for your life

When I am risen

Be fearful of me

For Icarus did not fall for free

And burning wings make quite the sight