He wanted to bury all his problems,

And so they were.

With each shovelful of consecrated dirt

He became all  the martyr he hoped to be.

Stories were told,

Laughter,

Cries,

The center of everyone’s attention,

The sadness over his pain,

It was the things of his very most intimate dreams.

Everyone loved him,

Everyone gave him the pity he so rightly deserved.

If corpses could talk,

If corpses could feel,

Then his death would be the highlight of his life.

Each shovelful of consecrated dirt

Buried the martyr,

Buried his problems,

Buried him.