A warm embrace,
but cold to the touch,
none can lose its trace,
except those whose Luck's to much,
when it's finally your time,
do not try to bide,
for death plays a rhyme,
from which none can hide.
A warm embrace,
but cold to the touch,
none can lose its trace,
except those whose Luck's to much,
when it's finally your time,
do not try to bide,
for death plays a rhyme,
from which none can hide.