Death is a junkie,
forlorn and deep in debt,
and sure, he's looking funky,
but he's someone you must accept

You see him oftentimes;
he sees you only once
That's when time stops and runs,
and when that church bell chimes

He's huddling down the street,
wrapped in a ragged coat,
and you are in defeat,
no use to shrink or bloat

Humans his drug of choice
when they have lived too much
and cracked their human voice;
it's them he wants to touch

Death is a drug addict
and you're the drug
There's really no conflict;
he wants to hug

So whether you're at home,
or in Bob Dylan's dome,
he's gonna find you yet,
design your end, you bet!