“Might As Well Sit Here While I Still Can”
by The Prince of Darkness (ft. Time & Gravity)
Dedication — To Those Who Laugh at the Abyss
For the ones who’ve already pictured it—your name carved neat,
dates pinned like insects under glass,
a patch of dirt that finally minds its own business.
For the ones who think,
“Maybe I oughta go check that place out early.”
Not from fear—but from a sense of ownership that feels almost illegal.
Because this plot? It’s yours.
The only thing on Earth that won’t ghost you,
won’t argue with you,
won’t expect a damn thing from you.
Might as well visit.
Might as well sit in it.
Break it in like a recliner you didn’t know
you were financing your whole life.
Prologue — The Day the World Doesn’t Flinch
You ever really picture the day you’re gone?
Not the dramatized version—
no violins, no slow motion, no cinematic closure tying it all together.
Just a Tuesday.
Somebody spills coffee and cusses.
Birds clock in like they always do.
A lawnmower coughs three blocks away
like it’s got beef with the morning.
Maybe it rains—not dramatic rain,
just that steady polite kind
that barely earns a mention.
And while all that hums along—
you’re out.
No breaking news.
No cosmic pause button.
No audience waiting for meaning.
Just… absence.
Turns out the real shock ain’t death.
It’s realizing the world never needed
your permission to keep going.
Nursery Rhyme — The Little Forever Spot
Clap-clap, pick a plot,
Find yourself a quiet spot.
Dig it deep, make it neat,
Grass will grow above your feet.
Ring around the resting ground,
Guess who won’t be coming ’round.
Hide and seek, tag—you’re it,
Dirt don’t care who started it.
Swing goes high, swing goes low,
Everybody’s turn will show.
Laugh it off, stomp your feet—
Everyone gets their own seat.
Stone and name carved in line,
Little dates to measure time.
Clap again, don’t ask why—
Everybody gets a try.
Poem — Breaking In Your Forever Spot
There’s something punk-rock about it—
showing up to your own ending early.
A rehearsal dinner for dirt.
A cookout for one.
A private meet-and-greet with gravity.
You find your plot, bring a chair,
a drink, maybe a burger and a speaker.
You sit down and think,
“Yeah… this’ll do.”
You talk a little trash to the sky,
check the ground for ants
like they’ve got seniority here.
Because technically…
they do.
And then it hits you.
One day you won’t just be visiting.
You’ll be the permanent resident.
Plot number whatever.
Row whatever.
Neighborhood: Eternity.
Which means these folks around you?
Yeah.
They’re the neighbors.
Forever.
Old Mr. Jenkins two stones over
who used to yell about leaf blowers.
That quiet guy nobody remembers
but apparently died owning seven cats.
And that lady three plots down—
Karen.
Of course there’s a Karen.
And suddenly you realize something terrifying.
Death might be peaceful.
But eternity…
is still a neighborhood.
Imagine spending the next thousand years
listening to ghost-Karen complain about moss.
“Excuse me…
your roots are crossing the property line.”
So maybe bring a grill.
Maybe bring a laugh.
Maybe sit here now
while you can still stand back up afterward.
Because this patch of earth?
You bought it.
No landlord.
No rent.
No moving truck.
Just you—
and the only address
that never changes.
Interlude — Owning It
People treat cemeteries like they’re cursed.
Like visiting somehow moves the clock forward.
But it doesn’t.
It just strips the bullshit away.
And people who lose the bullshit?
They laugh harder.
They forgive quicker.
They stop wasting time
on things that don’t matter
five feet underground.
Epilogue — Your Final Address
Everything else is rented.
Time.
Body.
Reputation.
Even the stories people tell about you
after you’re gone.
But this?
Paid in full.
No interest.
No negotiation.
No extensions.
Just a quiet square of earth
where the argument finally ends.
So use it.
Sit there when life gets loud.
When everything feels bigger than it is.
Because nothing edits your priorities faster
than staring at the place
where all your excuses
run out of oxygen.
And if you do it right—
laughing, grilling, claiming it your way—
you won’t leave behind fear.
You’ll leave behind a story.
Something people say with a grin:
“Yeah… he used to go sit on his own grave and grill.”
And somehow…
that’ll feel exactly right.
Lullaby — The Quiet Neighborhood
Hush now baby, close your eyes,
Moonlight drifting through the skies.
Crickets sing and soft winds sweep,
Rock-a-bye in deeper sleep.
Lay your head, the day is through,
All the noisy things you knew.
Soon enough the clocks will stop,
Every road ends in a plot.
Hush now child, don’t make a sound,
Lots of neighbors underground.
Some were saints and some were jerks,
Some still gossip after work.
Sleep now slow beneath the trees,
Dreaming with the cemetery breeze.
If Karen rattles in her bed—
Just roll your eyes and play dead.
Close your eyes, the world will spin,
Morning somewhere will begin.
But here below where roots all roam—
The earth is quiet.
And everyone’s finally home.
Final Thought — Property Ownership
Funny thing about life.
You can lose your job.
Lose your money.
Lose your reputation.
Hell—you can even lose your house.
But eventually…
everyone becomes a homeowner.
© 2026 The Prince of Darkness. All rights
reserved.
“Visit your forever spot once in a while—it reminds you how temporary everything else really is.”