I never watch those Christmas shows
since Jojo's up and gone
don't care for hummingbirds and snows
now that I live alone.

My mom was dead before the grass
could sprout on Jojo's grave
and in each empty wind to pass
their forlorn flowers wave.

Her small dog's face is turning gray
her big dog's buried deep,
it's eight years since she went away
and now at night I sleep.

The years rush at us, mad and blind,
nobody's keeping track.
I know they live just in my mind
they're never coming back.

I yell at God, he won't reply
the echoes roll away
they say we all were born to die
some soon and dismal day.

Some thoughts are vain, chase them away
don't quit because there's woe
from Hell's grasp rip each passing day
and let the small shit go.