You can be driving, or even cab-riding,
Or maybe sauntering home from a bar.
In all of this automotive surrounding
You can’t tell what hits you or how hard.

Here’s a story the papers have mentioned:
Three men rode in a hearse yesterday.
Then - boom, an accident! All three were injured.
The one in the coffin, of course, was OK.

Then at the sendoff the brass grated ears
And for the cantor the notes were too high.
The tears were phony, the words - insincere,
Only the man in the box didn’t lie.

His former boss, infamously dishonest,
Kissed him on the forehead, leading the pack.
But the deceased man, ever so modest,
Didn’t once kiss anyone back.

Guess what? With speeches the rain don’t bother:
It started to shower. Nature’s the boss!
Everyone ran and quickly took cover,
Only the dead man remained where he was.

He could care less! That I truly admire.
Now, the living aren’t nearly as tough.
Only the dead men, the men that expired,
They are courageous. They are “men enough”!

People can beat you and treat you wrongly.
They label you, put a stamp on your head.
Truly you’re safe in one place only:
Inside the coffin, presumably dead.

You can have a single or you can share.
Living conditions here don’t mean squat!
The dead don’t demand any special care.
Jolly good fellas! I like them a lot.

Strict is the world of shadows and angels.
No worries, no fears beyond the grave.
Here we are, always living in danger,
Only the ones in the coffin are safe.

 
 
 
 

Some may accuse me of worshipping corpses.
No! It’s just with fate I’m upset!
Some day we all will get run over,
Except for the ones who are already dead.