I cut my head, I think I'm dead,
Many a trouble it gave me.
A chronic pain, persistent and vain,
Now as headless, I reign free.
A royal chair made from yeti hair,
I pride when I guide my kingdom own.
What do people know of headless man,
When with heads never sat on a throne?
The gods clap and cheer from the rear,
They know, I'm more defiant without, than with.
Marching already, the heathens on the clouds,
To arrest the spooks with their kith.
Nothing holy I say, clay props, clear as day,
Bastards with beards, lunatics I know.
These eight, need to be beaten straight,
After which my urine on their face flow.
This, that and then, if, will and when,
The nightmare ends before the dawn.
Hopes often fade, false stone not jade,
I laugh when I wake up wet and yawn.
Shimmering the sun, head intact I hum,
The songs of haunting, of the dead.
Head still hollow, bed soaked and yellow,
The grim reaper cackles in my head.
