[INTRO — upright bass, boot taps, piano] Everybody knows what to do with a newborn. Nobody agrees what to do with the dead. [xylophone ding] And we’ve had plenty of time to think about it. [VERSE 1 — rolling, gaining speed] Wrap me up in Egyptian linen, Leave me where the vultures fly, Build me high upon a tower, Send my smoke into the sky. Lay me underneath a longboat, Stack my bones beneath a church, Put a bell above my coffin Just in case the doctors weren’t sure. Tell the bees and stop the clocks, Turn the mirrors to the wall— Funny how we call death natural Then don’t act natural at all. [CHORUS] WITH WHAT REMAINS— That’s where the living get strange. Ashes, bones and photographs, A suit nobody can change. Send me upward, send me under, Give me back from where I came— Every culture gets creative With what remains. [VERSE 2 — faster] Miriam stayed for the party, Beer and cigarette in hand, Hunter took the Colorado sky With one last cannon blast. Sandra brought the Cadillac— Powder blue and riding low. Somebody chose a Pringles can— [piano stops] Well... There are cheaper ways to go. [band kicks back in] Queens can change their clothes four times, Pink Cadillacs fill the lane— You can leave this world in silence Or make damn sure they know your name. [CHORUS] WITH WHAT REMAINS— That’s where the living get strange. Build a tomb or plant a tree, Turn carbon into something changed. Keep me near or cast me outward, Give the undertaker blame— Nobody agrees on anything With what remains. [BREAKDOWN — bass and xylophone trading] Burn it. Bury it. Carry it. Scatter it. Dress it. Bless it. Press it. Forget it— [hard stop] No. Nobody quite manages that last one. [BRIDGE — piano, suddenly sincere] Maybe pyramids and funeral fires, Coffins, cannons, bells and stone Are just the living building something For the part that must go home. Because death leaves one last question No religion quite explains: Not where the dead are going— What do we do with what remains? [FINAL — tempo kicks up] So tell the bees! Start the Cadillac! Bring the good suit! Bring the rye! Fire the cannon! Dig the garden! Let the vultures have the sky! Put me somewhere you’ll remember, Then get living just the same— Because funerals were never for the dead. [band stops] They’re what we do WITH WHAT REMAINS. [single xylophone ding]
