I heard about a boy
Who read comics to the dead,
His art a ******
Of death in the self.

I saw a man
Stand proud and say it
He misses that boy
Where should he be?

I tell you where he is now,
Being read to
And dancing among the sheen on
An oily smile of those in hardship.

He carries on
Reading his story
And we listen, though
We know not from where.

Thank you, little boy,
For being there on my sundripped morning
Thank you for lighting my day
Without you, well

Without you I would have been much the same,
But that doesn't mean I'd forget you.