When things die,
The little things cry,
They saw up high,
That death was nigh,
All along.
When things pass,
This poor little lass,
Seems to be a mass
Crier with a huge sass,
All along.
When things leave,
Everybody seems to heave,
And things don't seem to recieve,
That these feelings made their leave,
All along.
The little things cry,
They saw up high,
That death was nigh,
All along.
When things pass,
This poor little lass,
Seems to be a mass
Crier with a huge sass,
All along.
When things leave,
Everybody seems to heave,
And things don't seem to recieve,
That these feelings made their leave,
All along.