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Here we march the grey parade
and see the final bed we made
the flowers stink so sticky-sweet
the slow goodbye almost complete

The wood polished to perfect shine
the drum of sobs in perfect time
the voices make a perfect hum
too perfect for imperfect ones

The grey parade goes marching on
to different lives still clinging on
the life that was the tie that bound
now gone, it's shell given to the ground

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