Don't you care to know, how old Tommy's doing these days?
Well last week he was gunned down by his namesake.
It was a pretty little murder, with Hollywood trimmings,
Some poetic justice this turned out to be.
Bedside apologies never amount to nothing,
there was a time when we never thought we would cry.
Let me in, lets all crash the hell out of this somber occasion,
there's no peace for the living lets give the dead a taste
They're dressed so fine, the undertaker cracked his fingers,
with the care a father gives a child.
And their cologne, courtesy the county coroner
was the century's best Formaldehyde.
The Pyre-men all disapprove but their loving smiles just help the mood,
the reaper's signature filling all of the guest registry.
I'm a liar, tell the kaiser that I never singlehandedly
took on the world.
The stars are falling all around me,
tunnel vision being a comfort tonight.
On my deathbed I call out, "Senor Muerte...
I dealt my hand now turn out the light."
The wick is smoldering, the room's too dark,
the dead man took the evening off
and Death just might.
Never mind his workload today,
I guess the western front will just have to wait.
