Sounds like coughin' in the coffin,
Mumbled 'taker to the priest,
So I'll whisper through the lock-hole,
"You be quiet as you feast.
With the grubs that wriggle near you.
It's plain wrong, to say the least.
As the organ starts to sound
Let nothing be unseemly.
Why should people look around
whether floorly or of beamly?
So let there be no low moans
In time with keys a-clackin'
Nor strain of voices wrackin'
To the beat of somber tones.
And let there be no humming
As the angels fold their wings,
Nor any finger strumming
Nor twang of bony things.
The dead should all lie quiet.
It's the proper thing to do.
Stay on your dead man's diet--
We'll hear no more from you!
When we plant you in the graveyard,
As we most surely will,
We'll pile a six foot sentry
To keep you dumb and still.
So no more fits of coughin'
From your coffin on the hill!"
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