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 black plumes
To escort us to the family tombs
With mourners in all corners who've been taught to weep 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 glamorize 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 under eating, that's your funeral
That's your funeral (that's your funeral)
Visualize the Earth descending 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, cold incurable
That's your funeral
No one else's funeral
That's your, that's your funeral!
Right then Oliver Twist
Your bed's underneath the counter
You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose
Well, it don't much matter whether you do or you don't
'Cause you can't sleep nowhere else!