Death

Here he lies as he wanted to be,

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

Home is the hunter from treacherous hills.

Here he rests his soul at peace,

Home is the leaf from the autumn breeze,

Home is the farmer from dried tills.

Here he stays, he goes nowhere,

Home is the merchant from selling his ware,

Home is the thread from the cotton mills.

Here he sleeps, he will not wake,

Home is the gambler after losing his stake,

Home is the sandwich from the flaming grills.

His journey has now come to an end,

So why show pity, why pretend?

His life was full of foes and friends,

To Heaven now does he ascend.