A soul wrapped in a countryside box,
Placed with a bow made of a map on top.
Open the box and you shall see,
The bits and pieces that have scattered about,
Leaving the soul wandering for the rest of its eternity.
Poke some holes into the box,
Let it breathe,
Send it off,
And let the world shape it into who it’s supposed to be.
That is the only way we will ever know,
Who it will be,
Once they’ve reached the ripe age of ninety.