It was early November,
When the police chief knocked on your door.
Said they found your son,
Dead in his car.
He died instantly,
Felt no pain.
But you’ll be dealing with the after math,
Way past spring.
There was a half moon above,
As you swallowed the truth.
You would never see him outlive his youth.
And they prayed for him at church,
And they lit candles.
But you didn’t see him laughing in the back.
You want him back,
But there’s no going back.
He’s gone for good.
That half moon came back,
But he was still dead.
And you couldn't deal with it at all.
So you stand at his grave every half moon,
In  a dark cemetery.
And you cry and you scream,
And you curse at God.
But it doesn’t make any difference at all.