(spoken) Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry...Liberal terms? Three pounds!
SOWERBERRY
(spoken) Well, as a matter of fact, I was needing a boy....
MR. BUMBLE
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 balck plumes
To escort us to the family tombs,
With mourners
In all corners
Who've been taught to week in tune.
Then the coffin lined with satin.
That's your funeral.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
SOWERBERRY
Large enough to wear your hat in.
That's your funearl.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
SOWERBERRY
We're just here to glamourize you for that
Endless sleep.
MRS. SOWERBERRY AND SOWERBERRY
You might just as well look fetching
When you're six feet deep.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
At the wake we'll drink a toddy
To the body beautiful.
MR. SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
Not our funeral.
BOTH
That's your funeral.
SOWERBERRY
If you're fond of overeating
That's your funeral.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
SOWERBERRY
Starve yourself by undereating
That's your funeral.
THE FUNERAL PROCESSION
That's your funeral?
MRS. SOWERBERRY
Visualize the earth descentind on you clod by clod.
You can't come back when you're buried
Underneath the ...sod.
MRS. SOWERBERRY AND SOWERBERRY
We will not reduce our prices.
Keep your vices usual.
SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
MRS. SOWERBERY
Not our funeral.
MRS. SOWERBERRY
Not our funeral.
ALL
That's your funeral.
MR. BUMBLE
I don't think this song is funny.
SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
MR. BUMBLE
Here's the boy, now where's the money?
SOWERBERRY
That's your funeral.
MR. BUMBLE
That's your funeral.
SOWERBERRY
We don't harbour thoughts macabre,
There's no need to frown.
MRS. SOWERBERRY AND SOWEBERRY
In the end we'll either burn you up or nail you down.
We love coughs and wheezes
And diseases called incurable.
That's your funeral.
No one else's funearl.
