To my friend’s funeral, I never went.

But sometimes I like to sit back and think,

He will never get the letter I sent,

He will never see how tears bled the ink.

Now, never will he smile or write again

Now, never will he graduate or pass.

Now, he won’t get any letters I send.

Now his fourteenth year will be his lost last. 

Never again will he grin down on me,

Or laugh so largely that it hurts to laugh.

Now he is  a  bump in the ground to see.

Now he is celebrating his lost last.

Never will I be happy, when I think

Of Paul because I think of lost last, bled ink.