The Sinister Fate of an Immortal Man


The Man Who Could Not Die

In the countryside, not far from where you might live,

Amongst fields of wheat and of rye,

By the side of the road lies a dusty old shack

No more than a half-story high

Lived a man, so they say, a man that was known

As "The Man Who Could Not Die".


Many things he had seen, many places he'd gone;

His longevity made others sigh –

He had seen Lincoln shot, he'd fought in World War II,

He had seen the first aeroplane fly –

Yet no older than a young, handsome 23 years

Looked The Man Who Could Not Die.


They would say, "He's an angel from Heaven above!"

And for him, they would kneel down and cry.

Others said, "He's a hero who does noble work!"

And for his long-lived secret they'd pry –

"Oh, I merely eat well and take care of myself,"

Said The Man Who Could Not Die.


But one slob of a man was quite jealous, you see,

And so, every evening, he'd try

To become immortal, but every try failed,

And he'd rage and he'd shout to the sky:

"It's not fair! Why can't I live the illustrious life

Of The Man Who Could Not Die?"


His jealousy grew through the years 'til, one night

When the moon was as large as an eye

Glaring down from above at the quivering earth

From a starless and inky black sky,

The man stole away with a shovel and crate

For The Man Who Could Not Die.


And he walked to the woods and he struck up the soil

And he watched all the damp, dark earth fly

As he dug down six feet, six feet down in the ground

And he finished and gave a long sigh,

For he'd finally finished the lone, unmarked grave

Of The Man Who Could Not Die.


Then away he fast flew to his poor victim's shack,

And he found the famed man where he lie

In his bed, lost in dreams and as yet unaware

That his long life would soon go awry,

And the man knocked him out and fast ran to the woods

With The Man Who Could Not Die.


With the deft, slender hands of a skilled gentleman

And an accurate, sinister eye,

He packed up his prey and then nailed up the crate

As around him the chilly wind sighed,

And he buried the box that contained the curled form

Of The Man Who Could Not Die.


Soon, the long hours passed and the victim awoke,

And he struggled to stand with a sigh,

But he fast realized he'd been buried alive,

And he gave out a horrified cry:

"Oh, dear Lord, no! Not I! Let me out, I still live!

I'm The Man Who Could Not Die!"


And he struggled and shrieked, he fought and he sobbed,

For away hope and courage did fly,

But it was all in vain though he scratched and he tore

And panicked in the dark where he lie –

And this torturous fate lasted thirty long years

For The Man Who Could Not Die.


They say he was found on a boy's treasure hunt,

And when he was dug up, Oh! His cry!

How it rung through the trees and disturbed all who lived!

How it rent and tore the very sky!

But where did he go after that? What became

Of The Man Who Could Not Die?


In a dark, dingy, gloomy asylum somewhere,

Where the ill of mind languish and die,

In a cramped padded cell, they say, lies a man

With a glazed, fearful look in his eye –

This poor creature, they say, was once perfectly sane;

Was The Man Who Could Not Die.


And the creature may watch as you stray close to him,

But away from your touch he will shy,

And the heart and the soul are simply torn to rags

When one hears his shrill, agonized cry,

Which reveals the long anguish of the dark, living tomb

Of The Man Who Could Not Die.


Those who dream of an immortal life, heed my tale

And fast open your closed, blinded eyes,

For an immortal life surely brings only pain,

And the novelty quickly runs dry

When you yourself suffer the sinister fate

Of The Man Who Could Not Die!