Buried on a bed of roses,
His eyes closed and aged,
Wrinkled flesh and pale faced,
Grandiose was his life,
Elegantly treasured pieces,
He was rich in his ability,
He was famous for his cruelty,
And they cherished his ingenuity,
Praised for things accomplished. 
He lived his life to his style,
Mannered and priceless,
He bought his joy, love and time,
Name a price: he would match it...
But he couldn't buy Death,
Couldn't afford another sleepless night,
Losing his memory whilst losing his mind,
He sold his soul to pay for his life,
Redemption with money,
He died alone in the comfort of company,
Friends and family that never understood,
Never encouraged his pleasure,
Only consoled his pain,
He died on a cold December,
Alone with a hundred people in his home...
Buried on a bed of roses,
They gave kind words of his hard work,
But nothing of his lonely character.