No one stays long
in the house of the bereaved
The hounds are lonely tonight
but not the priest
I dream I am still
in Tennessee grieving
Drinking moonshine
and branch water
looking for a fight
The undertaker creeps out
of the farmer's daughter's room
His wife beats a spider
with a broom then sweeps
When Death beats his child
nobody listens to her weep
My mother used to beg,
Son, don't write about Death,
We'll cross that ditch soon enough
I have nothing but respect
for the dead, I said
But there is no doubt in my mind
Death is a bad dog, a real *****.