All I want is to be the happy-go-lucky type
But somehow it creeps inside me and makes me want to run away from everything
Why am I like this?
Why can't I be like what I dream to be? ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.