If I die of Vanity, promise me, promise me that if they bury me some place I don't want to be, That you'll dig me up and transport me unceremoniously. Away from the swollen city breeze, garbage bag trees, whispers of disease and acts of enormity. And lower me slowly, sadly, and properly Get Ry Cooder to sing my eulogy, at the Hundredth Meridian, where the Great Plains begin.