You never wanted a cemet'ry end,
nor the ironclad trap of entombment.
So I'll take your ash from a spent
flame, and meld into Pan's miry dens.

Just don't get caught in the cemet'ry gates,
my love, just don't get caught.
Just don't get caught in the cemet'ry gates,
my love, where salvation is set at naught.

I'll bury your diary and gardening shoes
deep down beneath the Beechwood tree,
and I'll feel your weight melt away from me
as I leave you to rest in a way you'd choose.