You're the causeYou're the reasonThat I've been feelingAll these feelingsYou could have changedYou could have been differentBut I never thought you wouldEven though you said you could
Each puff, I winceAs I know what it means:Someday soon, you'll go.Each puff, you know,But you can't help it:You just have to blow that smoke.One day, I'll pick up the phone:It's okay Daddy,I'll be prepared.
Years of wandering aimlessly,Or purposely through the mossThrough the trees.Years of historySlowly dyingSlowly dying because of us.Because of us.Because of you.Because of me.Because of them.Birds used to reign the skies;Now, these metallic vultures reign the airs.Orang-Outans used to roam freely amongst the trees,Manatees among the seas.No more excusesOr ignorance:
Take a hold nowOn the silver handles here,Six silver handles,One for each of his old pals.Take holdAnd lift him down the stairs.Put him on the rollersOver the floor of the hearse.Take him on the last haul,To the cold straight house.The level even house,To the last house of all.The dead say nothingAnd the dead know muchAnd the dead hold under their tonguesA locked-up story.
I am not the black cat.There were four of us;my grandmother,a black cat,a myth,and I.My grandmother oftentold us a myth.When you are ill, she said,if a black catcomes and sits on your bedit means that youwill die soon.I was only six,seriously ill.Our black cat
He wakes, who never thought to wake again,Who held the end was Death. He opens eyesSlowly, to one long livid oozing plainClosed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;And waits; and once in timeless sick surmiseThrough the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speckOf moveless horror; an Immortal OneCleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a flyFast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse's neck.I thought when love for you died, I should die.It's dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.