There was an old man,
Who lived by the dead.
Talked to the dead,
And listed to the dead.
He was a lost soul,
Just like the ones he talked with.
Secluded, all alone, at peace with himself,
And the world.
His mere existance,
Was a mystery to the rest of the world.
He seemed to almost always rely on the winds,
Be they from North, South, East, or West.
He let the crisp autumn air send is messages of speach,
Never caring as to when they arrived to their new owner.
He had no idea that they never arrived at their destination,
Like the dame that died in the crash of 1842.
Never getting to where she was going.
He never got to where he was going, either,
Fore he was the one that caused that fatal crash of 1842.
Never knowing that his actions killed the one he loved,
Never knowing that he was killed, too.
There was an old man,
Who lived by the dead.
Talked to the dead,
And was the dead…