when the waves have started to crumble and the   mountains smooth and die take me where the road   is humble where the oldest men have died.      and i'll lay and make my bed there midst the beat   and treaded raods midst the memories of the dead   there stronger now and lonesome cold.      for i ask for not a second with a comfort in my   chest instead one million years of wondering   till i reach my final rest.      every kid must ask the question why do all our   heros die. did they live to wake in the morning or   live to sing under golden skies.