Star of Death

A tired and weary traveler came to the old inn door
He rapped upon it softly, and then rapped again once more
As the grumbling aged keeper cursed the hour of the dawn
The pilgrim reeled and clutched the air, then fell upon the ground

The cursing of the landlord cut the silent summer hour
What a drunken shameless vagabond, a scoundrel and a coward
Many times before he’d seen them as he sent them on their way
So befitting of his selfish mind he left him where he lay

For the time so soon ensuing as a chill stung through the night
And the humble man began to stir, but struggle as he might
All his efforts were to no avail, his failure was his doom
He slumped upon a withered weed, and died beneath the moon