Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
For in that sleep of death
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come?
A rat? Dead, for a ducat, dead!
under pressure we're cracking
Ay, but to die
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where
To lie in cold obstruction and to rot.
Here is my journey's end
Here is my journey's end, here is my butt,
And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.