A row of coffins sit atop a staircase
The wind coos ever so gently
Yet the coffins come-a-tumbling down
Their lids cracking and splintering
Leaving a trail of debris behind
Funny how they move faster than I
They pile up at the bottom of the stairs
Their passengers, bruised and decaying,
Return from their eternal travel
On the marble floor they're lying
Adorned in fine suits and linen
Funny how they dress better than I
A row of gravestones stand at attention
The trees sway ever so gently
Their branches go-a-swinging low
Clawing the moss-covered stone
Engraving their own eulogy
Funny how they care deeper than I