We who at funerals tend to weep,
We who stay close to grave digger's feet
Hoping that our time will come sooner,
That the bruises will be black and bluer that the last,
Replaying all the memories from the past,
Because I know that I am looking
for a new bed to lie in,
A new heart to confide in,
A new body to die in,
Cause this one's got nothing left,
So clip these wings and shackle my feet,
Sink me twelve meters deep,
Fill the insides with the ocean,
and let this slumber set softly