when the dying day comes
i hope i go where i hoped all those before me went
not heaven with its sheets and white perfection
nor hell as much as the hedonists hope
more a valhalla for all
the riders who rode before me will have built ramps
gallager will be sipping whiskey from a fruit jar
and smirking
the giants will be stirring a mad winter storm
out one end of the great hall of the gods
tearing the sky and coating the land
with ice and snow
while out the other men race and climb in summer sun
just to feel the sting and sweat
women dance to music made by the ones we lost
and all manner of feast is heavy on the vine
this is where i hope to go when i die
and i hope you go to
so i can see you
on the other side