Black painted hearse idles slowly   Procession follows at a morbid pace   The pallbearers steady in their march   Befitting this most sacred ceremony      Ornate brass 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 death      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, funeral they march