This is actually not a terrible way to go – at least, as described here. I hope however I go, I can go down singing.
Once, on a boat, in a terrible storm, one that might comfortably be called a tempest, I clung to the side and I sang. No one could hear me – because the storm was loud – but I sang for myself. I thought I might die out there. So I sang.
My friend, clinging to another rail on the boat, recited poems to herself. She is a poet, of course.
Music and poetry are there for us when we need them most, up to and including our deaths. May my death come when I have a few moments to sing as it arrives.
The Hamlet Project 