You said our pen's out of ink   I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think      When we died in our sleep no one had time to weep   Or make a great big fuss about you or me or us   We were left all alone, and they buried our bones   In the dirt, in the cold   and we sleep to the sound   Of the trees getting old in the deep underground      You said our pen's out of ink   I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think      When we died in that storm we watched funnel clouds form   And when they touched the earth, things couldn't get much worse   We wrote letters to ghosts, but what mattered the most   We were there to enjoy when it battered the coast      You said our pen's out of ink   I don't know if it's true, it depends how you think