Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry...Liberal terms? Three pounds!
Well, as a matter of fact, I was needing a boy....
He's a born undertaker's mute.
I can see him in his black silk suit.
Following behind the funeral procession...
With his features fixed in a suitable expression.
There'll be horses with tall balck plumes
To escort us to the family tombs,
With mourners
In all corners
Who've been taught to week in tune.
Then the coffin lined with satin.
That's your funeral!
That's your funeral!
Large enough to wear your hat in.
That's your funeral!
That's your funeral!
We're just here to glamourize you for that
Endless sleep.
You might just as well look fetching
When you're six feet deep!
At the wake we'll drink a toddy
To the body beautiful.
That's your funeral!
Not our funeral.
That's your funeral!
If you're fond of overeating
That's your funeral.
That's your funeral!
Starve yourself by undereating
That's your funeral.
That's your funeral!
Visualize the earth descenting on you clod by clod.
You can't come back when you're buried
Underneath the ...sod!
We will not reduce our prices.
Keep your vices usual.
That's your funeral
Not our funeral.
That's your funeral.
I don't think this song is funny.
That's your funeral.
That's your funeral!
Here's the boy, now where's the money?
That's your funeral.
That's your funeral!
We don't harbour thoughts macabre,
There's no need to frown.
In the end we'll either burn you up or nail you down!
We love coughs and wheezes
And diseases called incurable.
That's your funeral.
No man knows his funeral,