downbeat as always, your little stories
paint pictures in my mind
dark and dreary, bright and cheery
the colours, you paint sublime
your lungs are wheezing, your spark is leaving
but your voice still carries on
the things you’ve said i won’t forget
even when you’re dead and gone.
— what’s this one about? maybe an old relative, a grandparent, who told you stories. he smoked and you see now how close he was to death, but it didn’t seem to stop him. now his stories which you thought you’d never forget are fogged over, maybe never to be heard again.