Every Sunday the phone would ring.
It was always her, with joy to bring.
She would pick me up in her red Mustang.
We dance. We laugh. We sing.
Every Sunday the phone would ring.
As our favorite seasons turn to spring.
She would pick me up in her red Mustang.
We dance. We laugh. We sing.
Every Sunday the phone would ring.
"Rinnnnng! Rinnnng!"
No one ever answered.
Why?
Because we died last spring.
But my mom still picks me up in her red Mustang.
And we dance.
We laugh.
We sing - in her red Mustang.
Beautiful