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The Art of Dying
Death sits inside his office as we wait for the verdict
he speaks our fate with a nervous tick; do we get the cure or the sickness?
and when we die, what will it be - a graveyard grave, or a golden fleece?
And will we fight or will we flee?
Will you still have faith in me?
I walk down the golden stairs and pray, again, the skeptics prayer
my grandpa is still sitting there asleep with a book in his red chair
I'm a father, and I'm a son, and I do not own any guns
I hope death don't come from my hands so I can die a peaceful man
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Can't we say that we won't know a single thing until the day that death itself is cast away
and I believe there's nothing left to mar,
I don't know where I stand, but when I fall, its not too far
I hope you're running down the road with a golden ring and a purple coat
to meet me when I pass through death with my brother and the fattened calf
I can't see what it will be until my real name comes to me
I can't see what it will be, so dance with me until I sleep.
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