Coughin' in the Coffin

Coughin' in the Coffin “Sounds like coughin' in the coffin,” Mumbled 'taker to the priest, “So I'll whisper through the lock-hole, ‘You be quiet as you feast With the grubs that wriggle near you. Noise is wrong, to say the least. As the organ starts to sound now Let nothing be unseemly. Why should people look around now, Whether floorly or of beamly? So let there be no low moans In time with keys a-clackin' To the beat of sombre tones And the strain of voices wrackin’ And let there be no humming As the angels fold their wings, Nor any finger strumming Nor twang of bony things. The dead should all lie quiet. It's the proper thing to do. Stay on your dead man's diet— We'll hear no more from you! When we plant you in the graveyard, As we most surely will, We'll pile on a six-foot sentry To keep you dumb and still. So no more fits of coughin' From your coffin on the hill!’