Its over, the story has come to an end
The writer's pen had dried
And it was an abrupt end
For there is a death tonight

Upon his table, the pages turn yellow
As the hand which wrote is forgotten
The air he breathed seemed quite mellow
Even as he stayed cold and rotten

So as the tale of this fantasy remains unwritten
The last word a cadence of his last breath
There's still hope of him being smitten
Or will he wait till there's no time left