The last sound of a drum beating

And the siren of birds chirping

Helps one man be free of grieving

But won't be back for his living

The last charade he'll be doing

And the first thing he'll be saying

Is, "When does freedom be working

If all in life's always sinking?"

He'll sing his last song worth singing

And his last poem worth reciting

Is this the last sound he's making?

Or the last breath he is breathing?

In life, nobody is something

Perfect in almost everything

Unless people start believing

That all is a life worth living.