Every morning is a memorial
to the person I used to be.
A shrine comes up with the rising sun;
its rays say "R-I-P."

A bird sings a mournful tune, 
and a squirrel bows its head,
as I stretch my arms and rub my eyes
as surely as I am dead.

I greet the day with a smile,
since I'm nowhere to be found.
I change into my nicest clothes,
as I'm six feet underground.

I shake my head at my pillow,
flowered like a grave:
There laid lazy me,
too naive and selfish to save.

So of course I wake up every morning
because if I were to stay,
then I'd risk a fate most foul:
dying as the person I was yesterday.