I' M comin' back and haunt you, don't you fret.
What if I get as far as Hell away?
They's things of me that just can't help but stay—
Whether I want or not, you can't forget.

Just when you think you got me wiped out clear,
Some bird that's singin'—moonlight on a hill—
Some lovely thing'll hurt like it would kill,
And you'll hear somethin' whisperin', “He's here!”

And when somebody holds you closte, like this,
And you start in to feel your pulses race,
The face that's pressin' yours'll be my face . . .
My lips'll be the ones your lips'll kiss.
Don't cry . . . which do you think it'll hurt most?—
Oh, God! You think I want to be a ghost? . . .