I am an old curmudgeon.

So many I have known have passed

Into another life, for better or worse,

Who can really say?

To labor or to search,

I too, soon will follow.       

But as I sit alone, and sink

Deep into my old and stainy couch

I think, of all the bumpy little lumps

And memories that make it mine,

And yet I cannot take it with me.

My couch is too big, too full to fit.

They will squabble over it,

My children, and brothers.
Oh! To whom will it go?

Oh! Oh! Oh!

But my rug will be burned,

Of course, and my room emptied out

A garage sale will be held, no doubt.

And I know my passing will be mourned by all

With a whole god damned celebration.

They’ll decorate with ribbons and toast many toasts.

They’ll shed tears of joy when I go up,

But in the end, I will still be gone, and

Soon, Oh so soon, be forgot.