I class myself a poet,
An OK one at that,
But my words come from a heart,
So damaged, cold and black,
I don’t mix my words,
I speak to you the truth
I’m honest and straight and to the point,
I’ve been like it since my youth,

So,
Nail me to the cross,
I’m a martyr to the king,
Put me to my death,
And let them fallen angels sing,
Praise oh, Hallelujah,
The poet is dead,
Let’s all ignore his words,
And everything true he said,

The greatest life,
I have never seen,
The paths I have chosen,
Have depicted where I’ve been,
When I write my words,
Some you may not like to hear,
But I write only what I know,
I have shed many a tear,
The Devil he tortures me,
And so does the Lord,
But I’m a fighter,
And the pen be my sword,


So,
Nail me to the cross,
I’m a martyr to the king,
Put me to my death,
And let them fallen angels sing,
Praise oh, Hallelujah,
The poet is dead,
Let’s all ignore his words,
And everything true he said,

Life isn’t all roses,
Falling at your feet,
It’s roses with thorns,
A kind of bittersweet,
I grabbed some pen and paper,
And tried to make a stand,
My words of wisdom and life,
Not the greatest of demand,
In your ears,
My words so uncomfortable,
They don’t sit pretty,
And so as a poet I shall fall,

So,
Nail me to the cross,
I’m a martyr to the king,
Put me to my death,
And let them fallen angels sing,
Praise oh, Hallelujah,
The poet is dead,
Let’s all ignore his words,
And everything true he said