You stare up at the ceiling glossy-eyed You were sucking air. You were looking at something I couldn’t see You weren’t really there
When I shuffle off my mortal coil, will it be this slow? Will I be dwarfed by the smell of formaldehyde or by candle smoke?
And in the middle of a walk, just like the ones you used to take, You’ll hear the wind begin to call your name.