So, who’s going to mourn me when I’m dead?
Who’ll come to plant flowers on my graveside?
No, they’d rather fling dirt on me instead.
The people with happy eyes and smiles wide
Pleased with the news that from life I’ve resigned
They come with words explosive as land mines
Persecutors who now sing of good times
The wrong-done who’ve come just to state their case
With stories of hate, anger and bad crimes
Meat-axes, who wanted to break my face
The apathy knowing I got what I should
Snobs who threw me from their exclusive place
But who’d talk about a man who was good?
As his many friends will no doubt attest?
And on how much he was misunderstood?
About he who tried his absolute best?
Even when no one saw what he could see?
About a great man who was viewed a pest?
A man who never walked on his knees?
A man who did good things as well as bad?
Who wasn’t as horrible as they plea?
But no one listens to the truth – how sad
And thus it is buried six feet under
As the sods rely on the view they had
8th June 2005
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