Will She Kick the Bucket Before the Month Ends?

The form is a Ballad (hum “Barbara Allen”):

I’m just a ghost of my old self,

a coffee pot not perking,

a worn-out car that won’t crank up,

my poet’s voice ain’t working.

 

I’ve popped my clogs, soon counting worms,

that dang old reaper’s smirking,

I’m close to sleeping with the fish,

my poet’s voice ain’t working.

 

I’ll take a dirt nap soon I fear,

the carriage ride is lurking,

I’m just about to head on west,

my poet’s voice ain’t working.