Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
Last Train To Where?
At the end of the day, I know what’s best
I’m here on Earth like the rest I’m a guest
So I’m getting off now, I’ve about had my fill
But I’ve had no time to write out my will.
I’ve picked a train it’s so quick and fast
But for the poor old driver I feel really last
It was not his fault so he shouldn’t feel sad
About some sick bastard who was probably mad.
I loved my kids and especially my wife
But I had a calling, had to end my life
I got pissed off, my family weren’t to blame
But no doctors listened, they’re all the same.
I told them I’d do it, they did not believe
So at the end of the day they really can’t grieve
I didn’t feel pain it was over so quick
I’d not been cured, I was still rather sick.
I was discharged too early I tried to explain
Because they did not know what was going on in my brain
Why didn’t they listen? Why didn’t they care?
To find someone helpful was remarkably rare!
Don’t weep for me, I’m free at last
No worries, no cares, no future, no past
Don’t have no ticket, don’t have no fare
I’ve just lay on the track of the last train to where?
To read a poem by Brian's daughter; click here.