Death ain’t proud. But he’s got power.
Wearing a dark suit and a darker glower
He drives a bone white cadillac
That should be dead for lack of gas.
He asks me if I want a ride.
I got nowhere to be. I hop inside.
When the red sun hits high noon
We pull over and park at a greasy spoon.
He eats fried pickles and I down a shake
And we both praise the fresh apple pie they bake
Still I don’t ask where my mother’s gone
Or wonder how soon it is I’ll be along.
“It ain’t easy being me,” he said,
“Shuttling across the souls of the dead,
Pulling them up from their dying bed,
And half of ‘em don’t even want to be led.
Even though you’re a young man
I figure you just might understand:
They say I’m in charge but it’s all a sham.
This ain’t personal and there ain’t no plan.”
So sons and wives and fathers die,
We cry our tears and ask god why,
But Death himself he makes no fuss,
Just wipes us off his shoulder, dust to dust.