It’s a late December evening, and the clouds are leaking light
The rain is holding steady as the day returns to night
I’m standing by your graveside, and it isn’t real for me
In my mind, you’ll be behind me, waiting as I turn around
But deep within my heart I know you’re deep within the ground
I long to feel you near me like you always were ‘cause this isn’t real for me [bad word] I was so alone, and I owe you so much
You brought me back to life with your golden touch
I am down on my knees, [bad word] back for me please
I’m still waiting for the punch line, for you to tell me it’s not [bad word] I won’t return to Baker Street, ‘cause it’s not my home without you.
The skull you used to talk to still rests on the mantlepiece
Your eccentric way of seeking intellectual release
I’m glad that I could help you in the time we shared, in the way that you helped me
And I miss the sound of your violin ringing out each day
The sound is absent from my ears, ‘cause you no longer play
221b is just too quite now, and it isn’t real for me
I will not say goodbye
To all the memories I treasure
The ones I’ll keep safe
And the ones I’ll keep forever
I will never see you as anything
Other than the great man you were