John Prine Made It OK to Stay a Kid

About the Song

When it comes to blending humor with heart, few songwriters ever did it better than John Prine—and “Please Don’t Bury Me” is one of his finest, funniest, and most enduring examples. Released in 1973 as the opening track of his sophomore album Sweet Revenge, this song welcomes listeners with a rollicking, upbeat melody that cleverly masks its unusual subject: death. But in classic Prine fashion, even a song about dying turns into a joyride filled with warmth, wit, and a surprisingly life-affirming message.

The premise of “Please Don’t Bury Me” is as whimsical as it is wise. The narrator, having apparently died by accident, requests not to be buried in the ground but to have his body donated—piece by piece—to the world. From giving his stomach to Milwaukee for beer-making, to handing his ears over to the deaf, he rattles off a list of bizarre, hilarious post-mortem wishes. But behind every quirky line is something deeply human: the desire to be remembered, to be useful, and to leave a little joy behind.

What makes the song so appealing—especially to older, seasoned listeners—is its refusal to treat death as something somber or untouchable. Prine strips away the fear and ceremony and replaces it with laughter and light. His delivery is cheerful, conversational, almost like he’s sitting on your porch telling tall tales with a grin. And underneath the jokes, you can hear a tender reverence for life. There’s no self-pity here—just a humble, humorous man who’s made peace with the inevitable and is cracking one last joke on the way out.

Musically, the song bounces with acoustic guitar, piano, and a bit of country twang. It’s toe-tapping and deceptively light for a song that starts with someone waking up to find they’ve died. But that contrast—that unique Prine magic—is what makes it unforgettable.

For many fans, “Please Don’t Bury Me” is more than just a novelty tune. It’s a reminder that even in our final moments, there’s room for laughter. And that joy, even in the face of death, might be the most generous legacy of all.

So the next time life feels heavy, put on this tune, smile at the absurdity of it all, and remember what John Prine taught us: that sometimes, the best way to face the end is with a wink, a grin, and a guitar in hand.Poet Laureate of the Suburbs: John Prine | Washerman's Dog

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Lyrics: Please Don’t Bury Me

Woke up this morning
Put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen and died
And oh what a feeling!
When my soul
Went thru the ceiling
And on up into heaven I did ride
When I got there they did say
John, it happened this way
You slipped upon the floor
And hit your head
And all the angels say
Just before you passed away
These were the very last words
That you said:

[Chorus:]
Please don’t bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, I’d druther have “em” cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don’t mind the size
Give my stomach to Milwaukee
If they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box
Just get “em” out of here
Venus de Milo can have my arms
Look out! I’ve got your nose
Sell my heart to the junkman
And give my love to Rose

[Chorus]

Give my feet to the footloose
Careless, fancy free
Give my knees to the needy
Don’t pull that stuff on me
Hand me down my walking cane
It’s a sin to tell a lie
Send my mouth way down south
And kiss my ass goodbye

[Chorus]

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THE KID WHO GREW UP IN A DESERT SHACK — AND BECAME COUNTRY MUSIC’S GREATEST STORYTELLER He was born in a shack outside Glendale, Arizona. No running water. No real home. His family of ten moved from tent to tent across the desert like drifters. His father drank. His parents split when he was twelve. The only warmth he ever knew came from his grandfather — a traveling medicine man called “Texas Bob” — who filled a lonely boy’s head with tales of cowboys, outlaws, and the Wild West. Those stories never left him. Marty Robbins taught himself guitar in the Navy, came home with nothing, and started singing in nightclubs under a fake name — because his mother didn’t approve. Then he wrote “El Paso.” A four-and-a-half-minute epic no radio station wanted to play. They said it was too long. The people didn’t care. It went #1 on both country and pop charts — and became the first country song to ever win a Grammy. 16 #1 hits. 94 charting records. Two Grammys. The Hall of Fame. Hollywood Walk of Fame. And somehow — he also raced NASCAR. 35 career races. His final one just a month before his heart gave out. He survived his first heart attack in 1969. Then a second. Then a third. After each one, he went right back — to the stage, to the track, to the music. He died at 57. Eight weeks after being inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. His own words say it best: “I’ve done what I wanted to do.” Born with nothing. Died a legend.

FORGET KENNY ROGERS. FORGET WILLIE NELSON. ONE SONG OF DON WILLIAMS MADE THE WHOLE WORLD SLOW DOWN AND LISTEN. When people talk about country music’s warm side, they reach for the storytellers. The poets. The men with battle in their voice. But there was a man who needed none of that. No outlaw image. No drama. No broken bottles or barroom fights. Just a six-foot frame, a quiet denim jacket, and a baritone so deep and still it felt like the music was coming up from the earth itself. They called him the Gentle Giant. And he was the only man in country music who could make the whole room go quiet — not with pain, but with peace. In 1980, Don Williams recorded a song so simple it had no right to be that powerful. No strings trying too hard. No production reaching for something it wasn’t. Just a man, his voice, and a declaration so plain and so true that it crossed every border country music had ever drawn. That song hit No. 1 on the country charts. It crossed over to pop. It became a hit in Australia, Europe, and New Zealand. Eric Clapton — one of the greatest guitarists who ever lived — admitted he was a devoted fan. The mayor of a city named a day after him. And decades later, the song still plays at weddings, funerals, and every quiet moment in between when words alone aren’t enough. Kenny Rogers had his gambler. Willie had his road. Don Williams had three minutes of pure belief — and the whole world borrowed it. Some singers fill the room with noise. Don Williams filled it with something you couldn’t name but couldn’t forget. Do you know which song of Don Williams that is?