The day I died there was a fair, red balloons, a dancing bear. Children came for cream éclair. Despair? Not for me, there was a fair. Tumblers dressed in festive flair, a ferris wheel, a splendid mare. Laughter rang out here and there. Prayer? Not for me, there was a fair. The day I died, in market square, they brought Moliere and Fred Astaire, an iced cream cone concessionaire. Voltaire? Not for me, there was a fair. I was afraid to hope they would, and even more to think they should. But on the day I died, I swear, they made my life beyond compare. For if you die, I hope you care that on that day they have a fair.