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.