Awake! No rest for the weary
As the sunshine grows dreary,
As the savannah sounds eerie,
The ghosts of the grass—they yell.
Rise up! The wicked are woken,
By a pale and unseemly token
Of death which is hardly unspoken.
From grace, to hell, he fell.
What a pallor fit for the grave,
The color of a ruthless knave,
Whose soul to Satan he gave
At the tolling of the bell.
Sickly skull and sunken face,
He looked so damned out of place.
If he was bludgeoned by a mace,
His death will surely never tell.