| I remember your hands at the funeral home
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| So cold and vacant
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| Just like your face as you laid there alone
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| And the caretaker tried, he tried so hard
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| You were covered in cover up
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| I stood at the foot of your casket and thought
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| It’s no wonder why she retreated
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| Just like the veins in your arms
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| In fear of forming more scar tissue and puncture wounds
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| Is it sad to say the things that I remember
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| The most are your blacked our phone calls?
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| Oh, how you gave up your life, your kids and your wife
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| All for the needles and pills that you needed so much
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| It’s alright it’s okay, we’re better off this way
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| It’s no wonder why I remember your hands at the funeral home
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| So cold and vacant
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| Just like the shadows where you lived alone
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| It’s no wonder why I wasn’t surprised
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| When the coroner called three weeks later
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| And told us you overdosed on methadone
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| It’s no wonder why |