Went down the desert where the vultures feed
On human flesh rotting in the sunshine.
Pluck eyes, testicles, suck out the seed.
Bloated remains, corpses, on which they dine.
Bereft of life, we all end up a meal
For buzzards, for jackals, microbes and worms.
Most don’t want to admit that death is real,
Its a truth with which all must come to terms.
If you live like you’ll last a thousand years
The time to be a good man will ne’er come.
You’ll end your life with your soul in arrears,
Fighting the fate you can ne’er escape from.
Slaves to fear and death are ne’er truly free,
Socrates didn’t fear death, why should we?