March of the Centipede

When I die, bury me on a hill
I wont roll down now
But everyone will see
Make it under the shade please,
Of a tall, old, bent birch tree


And now I see it, see it
Sunshine around the eye line
Just a fading back
Now towards the downtown,
In a frosty not quite spring

Fire up an old fashioned comet,
A star to sail over me
I'm out of wishes,
But I wish just one last thing
When you think of them
Don't think of me.