I was going to be sick
As this little balding man preached to us about Jesus
And politics
While Mark rotted in that box as Grammy watched and wailed
The smell of embalming fluid filled my lungs and began to suffocate me
Sickly sweet and pure chemical death
Nicotine drenched fingers
And leather were abundant in Osborne's
Where a funeral was a place to advertise
I was going to be sick
I wanted to crawl out of skin and scream
I wanted to hold her
While she grieved
I wanted nothing more then to hold her
As they shut the box on Grizz's waxy pale fingers
And she cried as a Mother should cry
Because "No mother should see her son in the obituaries
or in a box or have to burry them"