Wooden wheels on stone ring loud

As soon they stop they’ll draw a crowd

For not all carts share that tone

The clink of glass is one alone

Once merry men now withered folk

Their voices hoarse, no words are spoke

They know their answers are soon here

A touch of death no more to fear

No one seems to find it strange

That liquid in the glass will change

The man who drives seems to know

How to fight an unseen foe

How is it so he never falls

Surrounded by the ailing calls

Just as well he never stays

They might catch his wicked ways