A cold February wind crawls up my leg and rattles my knees A preacher fumbles over the verses that I know by heart Why doesn't he know them?
Quaking, I sit watching two unknown men folding the flag each turn means something; I forget The coffin is a beautiful wood I wonder whose grave this chair is teetering on?
I dare not sit back in comfort I did that once in a comedy club fell over, tore up my diamond tennis bracelet, all the rage back then Everyone thought me drunk, I am sure hadn't even had a drink yet I wonder who the comedian was?
The flag is presented to the son Now the standing around begins I turn up my fake-fur collar I spy two real minks I must speak to the son before I leave What will I say?
His arms crush out my words unspoken his tears run cold down my neck I wonder how I am ever to find Main Street from this unfamiliar cemetery?