Lyrics

Sitting in the office Thinking of the coffins That come and go they are bought and sold again Black lacquered maple Obituaries stapled to bulletin boards that read: "Welcome aboard my friends" The moss and the rotten flowers and The punch that turns, it turns too sour and The casket of the hour Causes faces to cower and fails to empower oh This will never do of course We must be true, true to the Lord that Sprung them from their stables And cut them down from their cables Oh my Great Aunt Cindy She had an open casket And I was a-crying 'cos her mouth was all crooked now Saints and lightning bolts Save me from the hole I got struck again and it's time to begin again But my cousin, he just cracked And when his elevator went to the top Oh how we swore how we'd never come down But there's just no place in this business for clowns, oh This will never do, of course We must be true, true to the Lord that Sprung them from their stables and Cut them down from their cables and Brought them here to these hallowed halls Where with the hand of an artist, they are embalmed If ever a blemish or a waxy finish should taint the star of the hour, hour oh In the life of an undertaker I would give it all up to be If ever a blemish or a waxy finish should taint the star of the hour hour oh Moss and the rotten flowers The punch that turns it turns too sour This will never do of course We must be true, true to the Lord that Sprung them from their stables and Cut them down from their cables and Brought them here to these hallowed halls Where with the hand of an artist they are enbalmed Moss and the rotten flowers The punch that turns it turns too sour This would never do of course We must be true to the Lord