Dead Men Don't Need Season Tickets

Telephone call

Telling me

My old friend Graham had died

I took a ride

Down to where I

Could be of assistance



I said to his wife

Don’t give in

To grieving cliche and turn

His side of the room

Into a shrine

It just doesn’t work



My arm round her shoulder

Gently I told her

Dead men don’t need season tickets



Now that he’s gone

You’re gonna need

A helping hand with the lawn

Various chores

Not least of all

Those funeral arrangements



If I were you

I’d get myself

Away from all that relates

Week in the lakes

Reasonable rates

Early September



Now I’m no hotelier

Just thought I’d tell yer

Dead men don’t need season tickets



Maybe I’m forward

Maybe I’m morbid

Dead men don’t need season tickets



Dead men don’t need season tickets

In a mortuary

In the mortuary

In the mortuary

In the mortuary