Let’s sing a song, he said,
as his head floated into the clouds and his body sank into the ground.

How can we sing if you’ve lost yourself?
You’re decapitated, I declared.

It won’t make a difference, he said.

But you’re a corpse,
A cadaver,
A pitiful excuse for the remnants of the ashes of a man who once was.

I told him to find himself,
To take a merry trip down memory lane, stopping only for hell.

He stared at me and then glanced down with that insignificance characteristic of only him.
I found my head, he said.
Sorry excuse for a head, I haughted.

What a sorry excuse for a song.