And the tragedy will be,
I won’t hear what people are saying’
As they eulogize about me.
Reading my own eulogy,
Now that would be fun,
Then jump back in the box,
Shouting, I just must really run.
Before I went though,
The mourners might query,
That cos’ I’d been dead a week,
Was I feelin’ weary.
And at this stage of proceedings,
I reckon’ I would’ve heard the bell,
As Satan pulled up in a limo, signed,
And as death normally does,
Tears are always provoked,
But what’s the good of cryin’, I’d say,
If, I’ve already croaked.
And as I lay in a box,
Just listening to prayers,
And a priest who’s never met me,
Thinking, “who really cares”?
So I reckon at the wake,
I’d just lie there and listen,
Wishing I was pissed,
With the mates that I’m missing.