Death it seems to me is just a movement,
a bus stop in Cleveland I don’t know,
just a crowd of faceless faces
waiting for another ride.
Browns, Blacks, Whites,
pimps, whores alike
just waiting for another bus
to St. Louis, finally St. Peter’s.
Cinderellas won’t ride a night tram,
no night coach for them
strictly Amtrack’s club car
taking a double decker to heaven.
Imagine death if you can
sweep the dirt
chase those skeletons,
take the last bus out of town.
It’s a two-way trip for some,
for others a two year warranty.
God loves you but if you come by bus
check the final destination on your ticket.