Write the poets, tell them fill their books,
dust off the old suit and your good looks.
Light the candles in the living room --
flowers and mourners are arriving soon.
Let the jeweler shine the diamonds,
and the radio stations play only silence.
Pass the old graveyard and hold your breath,
exhale whiskey fumes like certain death.
In the pages of his old tarnished book they'll read
of a brave man and white steeds.
Lock the doors he is not here
do not search he is nowhere --
lost amongst the seasons in days and weeks;
in the slow elbowing of cold water creeks.
Listen to them whisper between the walls
that his own ghost was his own fault.
But how do they