Sitting in these covered chairs,
behind your rose covered casket,
listening to the preacher talk,
but it seems as if he'll never stop.
He keeps droning on and on,
and it's getting warmer and warmer out here,
but that's because it's almost the middle of June.
The wind finally starts to blow.
And it's as if the preacher takes it as a sign,
to hurry up and finish.
It's like your voice is carried in the wind,
even though you're not here,
it's as if you're saying
"Hurry up and get done already, it's hot out here
and my mama's starting to sweat!"

Years later, I stand here putting flowers on your head stone,
I still hear your CD playing in my car stereo,
one of your favorite rock-n-roll CDs,
as I feel the wind blow,
and since your funeral,
everytime I feel or hear the wind blow
I think of you.
And as I turn to leave,
I hear your voice in the wind,
"I love you sweetheart,
but I want you to put my CDs back where you found them,
and stay out of my chair!"
 
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