When the years become a heavy burden,
And cast their shadow upon your brittle bones,
When your run has slowed down to a crawl,
And your old heart yearns for home,
When the city's poison has taken its toll,
And you long to leave it's bars behind,
Then follow me, old friend of mine,
Let me lead you by the bony hand.
Let me offer you that one last drink,
Before I lead you to your final pasture,
What be your forte, old friend of mine,
That I may feed your last line to your pastor?
That he may pray his words of loneliness,
From his two-thousand year old novel,
To comfort the few who mourn your death,
And those who shelter from their hovel.
Take my bony hand, old friend of mine,
That I may lead you to your resting place,
Where your final pasture lies above,
The cold dark earth in which you lay.
Hush thee now! Old friend of mine,
This is no time to wail or moan,
You longed to reach here, old friend of mine...
I have simply sent you home!