Dirge To A Dead Girl

I hope the dirt tastes like Friday
When you left here with no tongue
But you spoke your last words anyway
“It’s just not worth the wait”

Found you on Sunday
You were laying there, eyes wide
And a smile spread far
Found that fabled peace at last

And I wish your coffin was my heart
So I could keep you around
But this old shoebox will do
May it serve your shedded skin well

If you’re above me, looking down
Don’t spit on my head
And if you’re down below, looking up
Don’t try to pull me under

By next week, I’ll be the same as now
Beginning to lose my toungue, too
And writing a dirge to a dead girl
That’ll last as long as I will