| Near a little garden
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| Flowers wild grasses
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| A body’s in the casket
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| Milk is in the carton
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| Coffee’s on the brew
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| And cars quietly pass
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| As people here for last respects
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| Collect to view
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| The face of the deceased
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| All emptied of emotion
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| Waiting for distortions
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| Of it’s perfect features
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| In a little clearing
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| Where they’ll put the coffin
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| And then shuffle off
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| And afternoon is nearing
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| You were once alive, body
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| Then you died
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| And I’ll sing your name with my instrument
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| But one day it will leave my hand
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| I’m skipping like a stone
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| Just a couple skips then gone
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| To the bottom of a pond
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| Where sun can never go
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| And resting at the bottom
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| Who knows what I’ll find there
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| No one can divine where
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| Friends go when we’ve lost them
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| The movie on the plane home
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| Said, «Life is for the living»
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| As I sat slowly living
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| Paralysed with boredom
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| Flying through the thin air
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| Skimming over cities
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| And isn’t it a pity
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| That we can’t grow old there?
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| Doesn’t it feel strange
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| To wait on this change?
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| Well, the pilot tips his instruments knowing
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| One day they will rust upon the land |