He struggles to sit up
And he labors to lie down
Half his joy is in an urn
And the other in the ground
Now there comes a summer
When life bursts all around
But his moments are all joyless
Laughter, merely sound
Each day is like an ocean
Where he swims and hopes to drown
An endless sea of sorrow
With his buoyancy profound
Perhaps he'll die this evening
From an accident that burns
This shell that hell embodies
To the ash that goes in urns.