I'm ninety-three
I no longer see
I think I'm gonna die

"Give me my cane"
cried the crooked man
who walked a crooked mile
from his bed to his closet

He opened the door
of his little black box
Lay himself down
and stopped the clock

the mourners mourned
the praisers praised
the diggers dug
and they buried the old bug

Sunlight glided across the baby green grass
weather crumbled the epithaph
The pitcher of flowers seemed so alone
surrounded by a sea of stone