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Well, Harry had a good job working' for the Secret Service |
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He had a wife and kids at home who made him awful nervous |
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He'd never done a damn thing you could call experimental |
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And he had this aching feeling that his life was accidental |
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So one day he burned his pinstripe suit and his leather shoulder holster |
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He snapped a Polaroid and made a giant wanted poster |
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He took it to a print shop and ordered up a thousand flyers |
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And walked next door to the laundromat and blew his brains out in the drier |
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And the tag on his toe read: Death by misadventure |
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Ain't that some way to go? Death by misadventure |
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Well, Harry's wife Estella took this matter rather lightly |
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She could have cried and cried but then her looks might come unsightly |
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She thought about her wardrobe and how much it was outdated |
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And how this trumped up family thing was vastly overrated |
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Her kids both turned against her and they took to drugs and stealing |
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Some junkie killed 'em both for two dime bags they were dealing |
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And sitting home alone disgusted by it all |
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She blew the sole survivor off with ninety Nembutals |
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And the tag on her toe read: Death by misadventure |
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Ain't that some way to go? Death by misadventure |
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So be careful how you choose your path and who you pick to go with |
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Some folks they take to living fast while some prefer a slow death |
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Some folks get confused and never quite know how they're going |
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When you're laid out on that slab we're all the worse for knowing |
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That the tag on your toe reads: Death by misadventure |
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What a silly way to go. Death by misadventure |
