We stood by your camp cot as the hours drew near
Your breath grew ragged, you refused one last beer
The doc said gotta go, the priest gave a sigh
Dad, mom, cousins, all the family’d come by
We waited to see what you were gonna say
Before the angels came and took you away
We hoped you’d left some money our way
Not a lot, but then again, its not ours to say.
We’d drawn lots, it was perfectly clear,
Your grave was to be watered, wept over once a year
Remembered and considered, ever ever near.
Then you stuck out your hand
And with a pleading look
Put in our hands an internet book!
Your life, our tales in a garish tell-all look
Published for nickels, spread far and wide
A memoir before you went upped and died.
We read, we cussed, we wished you a quick death
We hoped you’d choke as you drew your last breath
Why did you publish that damn thing
When you knew the grief it would bring?
Dirty linen, torn jeans, stained bed linen in between
You wrote and you thought that we’d forgive
But it was you that died and we’ve got to live.