The Bed Has Been Made Poem by William Mowell

I'll be walking on my grave
I'll be the one to blame
After I'm dead and gone
Never know who was wrong

I wont be able to sleep in piece
But I'll be sleeping in fleece
Find my mind at sea and my body decayed
You'll see the front of my grave has frayed

I'll be sleeping single in a dirt bed
I'll only sleep in a bed made of lead
Drift away to sleep and never wake up
Only to find your soul in a paper cup

Wake up, but you never will
And you'll never feel another thrill
Drift off to dream, it'll be your last
Before you wake up to a shotgun blast

All the mourners but most are insincere
Most never knew you were even here
Vengeance is mine even beyond the grave
For justice is what the renegade gave

Locked in a never ending struggle
All to blame on a shotgun muzzle
I'm in heaven and you're in hell
Because your soul you sought to sell

The devil bought an already black soul
Evil ran through it, and it took a toll
Karma bit you in the ass
And its all gone in a flash