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

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  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.