In my possession I have the skeledon of a fairy,
I’d say it’s quite small, and a little bit scary.
Every so often it twitches I think,
Whining and moaning and crying for drink.

That bone can be loud with all of its needs,
Singing me songs of my long past misdeeds.
I try not listen but it’s whinging so loud,
I even can hear it wrapped up in its shroud.

Today I did try to wring its damn neck,
And lay it down low amongst refuse and dreck.
In that moment I saw on it’s head with a frown,
A tarnished and crapulent small gold crown.

Then from one of its sockets there appeared a small tear,
for even fey skeletons do have something to fear.
Being discarded o’way in big piles o’ junks,
Or locked down forever in big o’range trunks.

Those bones and I, we are something akin,
Drinking down pints in our well-soiled-skins.
Dead and gone is no worry, getting old is a jest,
But you gone forever a huge weight on my chest.

I think like those bones I could use a good cry,
Wailing and tearing with you in mind’s eye.
Instead I’ll just settle for this small crummy crown,
And go trade it for scratch at a pawnshop downtown.

How about that skeledon, you like a cold head?
Even wrapped in your shroud for a bed.
But really there’s only one thing I want to be true,
Let dem bones be de ones to be thinking of you.