Everything is passing by
and it's become so hard not to cry.
Good decisions should be made
if his time here has really paid.
But he'll never make us do the work
for every day spent in the dark,
and without his healthy ridicule,
our despair's not lucky lacking rule.

Miles in front of him, but we're still young:
a kiss, his hysterical child sung.
Will we always be the most he has?
'Cause the days mark that the rest are bad.
If he forgets to dress up, I'm sure he thought
we'd want to remember him as what we've got;
and the posters hall upon our heads
when after his time, the rest is dead.