Don’t spread me ‘neath the old willow
Or, I prithee; not the garden old Rover
used and abused and nothing grows  
Neither bury me in the forest
or on a grave in the cemetery
And floating  me out to sea-
that’s not for me.

Take me to a mountain top
where snow is pillow soft,
leave the stark grey mark,
all my earthly worth
on that pure white earth
where I can feel eternity.

(C) Bebe Evans, All rights reserved