My favorite part of being dead

(The part that I adore the best)

Is that I get to do my hobby

That of finally getting rest

I could rest eternally

I could lay me down to sleep

And though my spirit haunts these bones

My resting soul they safely keep.

When I yet lived

I never rested

And so all of my joyful play

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Turned into burned-out working hell

And stole enjoyment of my day.

Leap out of bed

Throw on my clothes

And bolt some breakfast

Stub my toes

string my lute

And wrack my brain

To find a gig

And go insane

To make a living

Entertaining

All the while my body's straining

Hard enough to go berserk

And lose my joy to overwork

Spending mornings quite obsessing

Every detail of my dressing

All to sell the fantasy

That I'm footloose and fancy free

An avatar of rest and fun

(All of this done at a dead run)

An elaborate, calming pose

(From scrambled head to aching toes)

If all you do is work all day

(no matter how it looks like play)

These bones have learned this lesson well:

Any pleasure turns to hell.

The one clear joy, in death so deep,

(The thing I can do in my sleep)

With no patrons to impress

No duties, missions to address

No needs to serve, no cause to strive

(No frantic dash to stay alive)

No strumming strings till finger bleeds

Immortalizing daring deeds

No comprehensive sacrifice

No pretending life is nice

it's over, and I failed my test

But dammit now, I get to rest.

And with the necromancer's spell

With this Talon artifact

If I want to? Very well.

These bones can still arise, and act

But on my terms.

On my conditions.

When my bones get up to dance

Screw your mortal inhibitions

I'm NOT wearing pants.