• A poem to end all poems,
    that's what they all have said,
    but only when the day comes,
    that all poets will drop dead.

    And sad a day that will be,
    wreathing roses on their head,
    as tears and words fall and cry,
    for those who rest in eternal bed.

    A harsh reality we face, I fear,
    for what the future holds,
    without poems to help us through,
    the never ceasing colds.

    Once could say, once good and gone,
    their legacy will remain,
    but this I garauntee those people,
    who've not buried them where they've lain.

    "Memory and words that burn,
    a hole into your mind,
    are the only type of poetry,
    that will stay with us, man-kind."