When I have drawn my dying breath
There will be wailing all around:
"He kept his madness unto death
And by his stubborn pride was bound;
Until the day his eyes were shut
In endless sleep, with tears and groans
We begged and pleaded with him; but
He never looked at Game of Thrones."
The priest will sermonize me thus:
"Now brother Mal will never see
The rhapsody of blood and guts
That marks the end of Season Three;
Alas, alas, he now must lie
Where worms will leave him naught but bones
And-- yes, my friends, you well may cry--
He never looked at Game of Thrones!"
There are no flowers upon the grave
The headstone stands without a name;
The world has thought it best to save
His memory from such ill-fame;
But still, some passer by will stretch
A finger, and in whispered tones
Say to a friend: "There lies the wretch
Who would not look at Game of Thrones!"