“All my friends are funeral singers” – Sylvan Esso / Califone

 

They line up, in formation dressed in black and gold

Their harmonies studied their conductor reaches out

Stretching towards each note passed from open mouths

They take care not to step out of the lines

They are practicing to herald my final movements 

 

I imagine a simple coffin, a few flowers on the top

No grave to throw roses or tulips or dandelions 

but weeds are welcome at my final concert

The songs having been carefully chosen

By all of them together over a few drams

 

I taught them how to enjoy the single scotch

Carried far from cool islands to warmer climes

How to dance to the speech of foxes

They will not mourn me 

They are practiced in saying goodbye