They called here to tell me that you're finally
dying, through a veil of childish cries. Southern
Manitoba prarire's pulling at the pant-leg of your
bad disguise. So why were you so anchorless? A
boat abandoned in some backyard. Anchorless in
the small town that you lived and died in. I've
got an armchair from your family home. Got your
P.G. Wodehouse novels and your telephone. I've
got your plates and stainless steel. Got that way
of never saying what you really feel. I don't want
to live and die here where we're anchorless.
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