26
Dec
Goodbyes are said and roses thrown,
And the crowd starts to weep,
But the irony of the story is when I fell to my knees,
And began clawing at the dirt in front of the tombstone,
Of my bashful childhood,
With you by my side, you were screaming at the,
Top of your lungs, “Let it go!”
And I’m screaming at the top of my lungs,
“The ceremony was not proper, there was not enough people,
And who picked the music?
Those melodies almost made me physically sick.”
