This time it’s the winter of death
The moment we all dread
When you run out of breath
This time you are dead
There’s no mask on its ugly face
It is death
It has no pace
It takes no breath
I try to come across as dead
But really it’s all in the head
The brain is a beautiful thing
There is no brain fit for a king
It’s all just a game of ball
We play until everyone will fall
Into the grass
But in the end
We are all in the past