Black painted hearse idles slowly,
Procession follows at a morbid pace,
The pallbearers steady in their march,
Befitting this most sacred ceremony
Ornate bra** handles clasped
By solemn faced black clad men
Shining black casket lid
Inlaid in crimson silk
In there lies your father, son....
A father to a son and a son to a father
Now claimed by the coldest hand of d**h
Faintest scent of fresh cut white rose petal
Choked by the musty scent of fresh turned earth
Funereal they march....... Funereal they march.......
Funereal they march....... Funereal they march