A Humorous and High-Spirited Rejection of the Gloom of Traditional Burial.
Oh, the incomparable John Prine. Just hearing his name conjures up the image of a well-worn vinyl record spinning lazily on a summer afternoon, a glass of iced tea sweating on the table, and a deep, knowing chuckle welling up in your chest. His songs weren’t just tunes; they were perfectly whittled pieces of life, and few capture his unique blend of pathos, absurdity, and profound humanity quite like “Please Don’t Bury Me,” a standout track from his brilliant third album, Sweet Revenge, released in October 1973. While Prine was already a songwriting darling revered by contemporaries like Bob Dylan, this gem wasn’t one of his chartbusters, as he was always more a cult hero and a “songwriter’s songwriter” than a Top 40 presence. However, the album itself performed respectably, continuing the critical acclaim he’d earned from his Atlantic Records debut, and this song remains one of his most beloved and frequently covered compositions.
The story behind “Please Don’t Bury Me” is classic Prine: deceptively simple on the surface, yet utterly revelatory. The song is a hilarious, light-hearted fantasy about a man’s sudden, domestic death and his very specific instructions for his bodily remains. The narrative begins with a wonderfully mundane setup: “Woke up this morning, put on my slippers, walked in the kitchen and died.” What follows is the narrator’s soul floating up to heaven, where angels inform him of his final, post-mortem wishes—the very words that form the indelible chorus. This scenario—dying simply by slipping on the kitchen floor and hitting one’s head—is a darkly comic nod to the sheer, unceremonious randomness of life and its end.
The meaning of the song lies in its joyful subversion of the morbid finality of death. Instead of a tearful, solemn goodbye, Prine gives us an enthusiastic plea for his body to be “cut me up and pass me all around.” The instructions for the distribution of his organs—giving his stomach to Milwaukee “if they run out of beer,” throwing his brain in a hurricane, and letting the blind and deaf have his eyes and ears—are not merely jokes. They are a brilliant literary device, transforming a static body into a collection of useful, scattered gifts. It’s a refusal of the “cold, cold ground” and the grim enclosure of the grave. Instead, the narrator’s final act is one of ultimate utility and boundless whimsy, ensuring his components will literally live on, helping others, causing chaos, or just getting out of the way (“Put my socks in a cedar box just to get ’em out of here”). It’s a profound embrace of life’s absurdity, suggesting that even in death, one should seek out purpose and a good laugh.
For those of us who came of age listening to Prine, this song is a potent distillation of the era’s attitude toward established norms, including the stiff, formal rituals surrounding grief. It’s a reminder that it’s perfectly acceptable to meet the serious moments of life with a touch of irreverent humor. The rollicking, upbeat musical arrangement—a toe-tappin’ country-folk number—perfectly offsets the morbid lyrics, creating that quintessential John Prine tension that makes you want to dance and think at the same time. His casual, conversational delivery makes the ridiculousness feel completely natural, like advice you’d get from a favorite, slightly eccentric uncle. It’s a song that turns a final farewell into a lively, organ-donor comedy show, and that’s a beautiful, uniquely Prine way to stare down eternity.
Music Legend