They'll Find Me Dead and Cold

They'll find me dead and cold,
Six feet under the land of the bold
My face will rot, and features fade,
As I decompose in the shade.

"Vultures pick at your weary bones"
I was told by old crones
"Your skull will be taken,
your soul forsaken"

I've taken my time now,
doing what I can
all in hopes that I'll die a man,
while they say with furrowed brow:
"He dies here, and he dies now."