I went to a party, Mom, remembering what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mom, So I drank juice instead.

The way you said I would, Mom, I really felt proud inside.
I didn’t drink and drive, Mom, Even though others said I should.

I got into my car; Mom, I know I’d get home in one piece.
Because of the way you raised me, Mom, responsible and sweet.

I started to drive away, Mom, But as I pulled out into the road.
The other car didn’t see me, Mom, And hit me like a load.

As I lay there on the pavement, Mom, I hear the police say.
“The other guy is drunk,” Mom, but, I’m the one who will pay.

There is blood all around me, Mom, And, most of it is mine.
I’m lying here dying, Mom, I wish you’d get here soon.

Tell my brother not to cry, Mom, Tell Dad to be brave.
When I go to heaven, Mom, Put “GOOD BOY” on my frame.

Someone should’ve told him, Mom, Not to drink and drive.
If only they had told him, Mom, I would still be alive.

My breath is getting shorter, Mom; I’m getting very scared.
Please don’t cry, Mom; you’re always the one who cared.

I have one last question, Mom, Before I wave goodbye.
I didn’t drink and drive Mom So, Why am I the one to die?

-Modified (Originally by Kym Lamatry Whitehill)