We sing the songs we sang in life,
But in a key of tortured strife.
The words still roll from off our tongues,
But muted by worm-eaten lungs.
The notes, unsteady, harsh, and wrong,
Stop short, or else go on too long.
The chords we strike grate on the ear
And stir up discord, blight, and fear.
But still we sing all through the…