| Sam, bless him, has died and left this home
 | 
| The woodchucks running wild, the bushes overgrown
 | 
| Slip unseen into the skein of trees
 | 
| Slide through dusky grasses and scatter his ashes
 | 
| Oh, it is all over, he is never coming back
 | 
| There will be no more roaming
 | 
| He was only here for fourteen years
 | 
| And now the branches scratch my face and I cannot hold back my tears
 | 
| Long ago I did see him running in the snow
 | 
| He would come in from the cold and he would lie down by the stove
 | 
| Pass along this loping road
 | 
| The needle grasp of briers on the slope
 | 
| He would never been to church, so he does not have a soul
 | 
| He is not waiting at the place where all of us will go
 | 
| But the woodchucks would not run so wild
 | 
| The bushes would not be so overgrown if we were not alone
 | 
| Bound unbound through the boundless air, remaining wisps of hair
 | 
| Barking out through everywhere
 | 
| The trees, the grass, the rain
 | 
| And Sam in the air
 | 
| Oh, it is all over, he would never come back
 | 
| There will be no more roaming
 | 
| He was in this world, by my side he was curled
 | 
| But he came uncurled and this world holds him that much tighter
 | 
| That much tighter, that much tighter
 | 
| That much tighter, that much tighter
 | 
| Tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter
 | 
| Tighter, tighter, tighter, tighter, oh |