Tattered and torn,
A body lay secluded in a coffin of mourn.
Upon his head a halo of light,
For all the time hes lost the fights.
Every cut, every bruise, all the blood he bleeds,
Is spilled on a canvas for the world to see.
The more he holds his head up the more it weighs
The more pressure piled on his slate
One of these days we hope he doesn't break.
So the coffin doesn't fall into the hole they make.
