Last Rites, Room 129

I don't want to die for your child.

I want to teach your child how to do this or that and share a smile with them when they get it right. Or give a smile to them when they get it wrong. Try again. I'm here.

I don't want to die for your child.

I want to see the ocean again and eat an orange swirl ice cream at the boardwalk. I want to smell salt air and sunscreen and win a toy that smells like cigarettes.

I don't want to die for your child.

I want to sit on my couch tonight with something cold or mow my lawn one more time and listen to Queen. I want to plant a tree in my backyard. Japanese Cherry.

I don't want to die for your child.

I want to ride more roller coasters and eat more cheese. I want to see another Super Bowl and hear another Lawrence album drop and write more stories. I want to hear more stories.

I don't want to die for your child.

I want to be a father to my son. I want to see him walk. I want to argue with him over vegetables and homework. I want to teach him how to tie a tie and how to be kind.

I don't want to die for your child.

I don't want to die for your child.

But if promises and thoughts and prayers don't stop the wolves with weapons,
I'll show them what a shield looks like,
I'll teach a final lesson.

And if I can't protect them then, at least I'll go before them.
I'll stand ahead of them in line
And hold the door to heaven.