For all those times you shot me dead,

and laid my body upon the bed--

heart still beating, but pretend

it was a wound you could not mend--

I shook you off, I shot you back,

and as we fell, we laughed and laughed...

But even when the game was done,

you saw another yet to come.

Yet how romantic was that dream; 

dark to you it did not seem;

there was no fear to fill each day--

Death was still so far away.

Until arrived that letter white,

wearing words as black as night,

that led me to your fresh-dug grave,

and buried thus your dream once brave.