“If I die of vanity, promise me, promise me,
They bury me some place I don’t want to be,
You’ll dig me up and transport me, unceremoniously,
Away from the swollen city-breeze, garbage bag trees,
Whispers of disease and the acts of enormity
And lower me slowly, sadly and properly
Get [Gordon Downie] to sing my eulogy,
At the hundredth meridian
At the hundredth meridian
At the hundredth meridian
Where the great plains begin”
—At The Hundredth Meridian, The Tragically Hip.
Prosophos 
He doesn’t know a soul
There’s nowhere that he’s really been
But he won’t travel long alone
No, not in Fiddler’s Green
Beautiful. A sweet soul was silenced this year.