When I come back,
What do you figure will I be?
Will I come back at all?

Will I have accumulated the good-boy points to heaven?
Or will I be sent down to hang with Cobain, Jung, and Morrison?

Could I be sent back as a watch?
A Rifle?
A Brick?
I think I wouldn't mind coming back as a bird,
As long as it was somewhere warm.

Upon final judgement,
Will my heart be weighed against a feather,
And if so,
Will the scales tip at all?

Would I be reunited with old friends,
Old pets,
Old family?
If so,
Will I have to search them out?

Could I perhaps,
Be taken upon the back of a winged horse,
Sat at a great hall?
To drink and fight,
Until the final day where the fighting will be no more?

Whatever waits around that final bend in the river,
I hope that it is still many, many bends away.