We come... Just as we go. We go... Just as we come... Into this cold, hard world And out of this cold, hard world. We are created from absolutely nothing. We end up as absolutely nothing. Rotting corpses, beneath the ground To be tossed around. By farming horses In coming ages. When no thought of us ever living Is existing. Our lives, meaningless As we have a sleep that is endless. Our only hope To somehow live on Never truly comes to trope As we disintegrate on and on. Born are millions And billions And they all cease to exist. As though never truly able to subsist But one just one achieves What all mankind heaves. To somehow live on To not be hunn. Like William Wallace And Draco Hollace. People to whom the hat is taken off even by the creator. That my friends is the . . . fact of the matter.