The moon is low and yellow,
Round as life, now hard, now mellow,
The stars are pinpoints of light,
When somebody looks up at them,
They turn from dark to painfully bright.
Strike me dead with an axe or a musket ball,
Give me a bottle of whisky, a glass and all,
Allow me, before I pass away, to drink to Destiny,
The old great book with the blank pages,
A path written with blood and tears, not poetry.
The mildew will accept my falling body,
Under leaves white with shadow and sorry,
My eyes will close as the last page is torn,
A breath will slowly, lastly, mercifully expire,
And my heartless soul in hell will, forever, burn.