My legs they hurt.
The pain's in my knees.
Could you bring me a scotch
and my cigarettes please.

Now tell me a story.
One I've not heard.
Perhaps your life.
Spare not a word.

Tell me your sorrow.
Speak of your dreams.
Of soft Sunday mornings.
Or crystal clear streams.

I'm here for you now.
Not always I'll be.
So tell us a secret.
It'll die with me.