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Funeral
undertaker looks like a widow
in his new felt Stetson that he bought from the hatter
stovepipe body and lapels to his elbows
thin as a shovel and he's looking quite dapper
these are the ashes from which we flower
this is the earth to which we are married
undertaker weeping like a child
singing like molasses for the soul he buries
and the sun is growing tall
tin roof is hot as a griddle
Sally steps in and she's shaped like a fiddle
in her two bit jacket with a belt round the middle
the lines are blurry and the sound is dull
it's a first rate day for a funeral
undertaker yellow as a porch light
standing on the mount with the King James Bible
taller than the shadow on a five o'clock steeple
shaking like a preacher in a tent revival
every little creature staring at the coffin
the choir is singing and the women are sobbing
creosote and whiskey hanging on the morning
day old gin and his head is throbbing
and the sun is growing tall
tin roof is hot as a griddle
Sally steps in and she's shaped like a fiddle
in her two bit jacket with a belt round the middle
the lines are blurry and the sound is dull
it's a first rate day for a funeral
undertaker chewing on his mustache
bent down at the mouth of the new dirt
spilling in the lilies that he holds by the handful
wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his best shirt
heat like a serpent crawling through the thicket
scratching at his neck and pulling at his collar
undertaker gentle as a sparrow
stumbling Damascus oh the Heavens oh the Father
and the sun is growing tall
tin roof is hot as a griddle
Sally steps in and she's shaped like a fiddle
in her two bit jacket with a belt round the middle
the lines are blurry and the sound is dull
it's a first rate day for a funeral
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