It is said when you die your life flashes before your eyes,
But for poor Raymond it went by so fast it could hardly be recognized.
To some he was a square, simple and plain,
But to others he was a rose, needing summer rain.
His mother smelled sweet, like perfume,
But he’ll never again smell this in his tomb.

It is said when you’re a child the imagination flows,
But what kind of fiction Raymond would have written, nobody knows.
To some he was a menace who could only complain,
But to others he was a friend, helping to sooth the pain.
His mind was clear like mountain water,
For he had no idea what was slaughter.

It was told by his parents that a late baby’s no crime,
But poor Raymond had always been regretted his extra time.
To some he was a baby bird needing looked after,
But to others he was like a television that always caused laughter.
His life ended like a twisted fairy tail,
as small as a period, as strong as a nail.

 
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