I blame that Frankie meself.
Just drifted into me life he did, and now I've gone and snuffed it.
It's all right for that Welsh bloke who went to America,and that flower down the mine, and them blokes what went to the centre of the earth. And even that woman who got turned into a pile of shite.
But me? I'm dead now. Brown bread. Done. Underscored. Finito.
Can't understand it meself.
Do I sound illiterate? Stupid? I'm not really, I'm just trying to come across the same way I talk.
Not a lot I can say about that really. It's not what I expected though. Can't see a bleedin' thing. No long tunnel with angels up the end playing harps, no bright lights. No SFX.
Boring as arseholes really.
But thanks to them what left floral tributes and silly messages. Means a lot to me that. At least it would if I wasn't taking the piss. You fuckers never cared about me when I was alive, but your love for me is tearjerking...
Fucking hippocrits. Scrub that. Spell check not working. Substitute contrary bastards for hypokritts.
Anyway, it's crap being dead. Boring as arseholes and you can't feel the heat or the cold, can't feel anything really.
Is that an angel I see?
Nah. It's a pelican crossing. False alarm. Sorry about that.
No I'm not. Not really.
It's all Frankie's fault. E-mail the bastard and call him names. Tell him to stick his arty farty haikus up his arse and give me my life back.
The fucker. It's all his fault. I really hope he gets his shovel out and digs me out of this shit. Otherwise I'm just lost.
And the worst of it is, I can't even remember how I died.
Ah well, more from me if I somehow get resurrected.
More if I get it. Preferably not in the neck. But you never know...