The Embalmer's Lament

Oh my beautiful embalming fluid machine
Has been here with me through both good times and lean
With it’s merry merry humming, like a ukulele’s strumming
An old familiar song so sweet, serene
This state-of-the-art magnetic high speed pump
Assures me that I'll never hit a slump
So bring to me your dead
From their wretched dying bed
And with my cannula, their blood I'll gladly sump

Oh my table is a good one, don’t you know
It’s an old antique, I bought it long ago
It is made of stainless steel, with a big adjustment wheel
To slant it so the blood will nicely flow
From the drain that is located at its base
Down a rubber hose, it runs a dizzy race
'Till it bubbles down the sink
And it makes you stop and think
That someday you’ll surely wind up in this place

Oh the trocar is my favorite apparatus
I keep mine upon the shelf behind the lattice
Where its hidden, quite from view
From the shy and frightened few
Who might wonder just what kind of poker that is
Its a two foot long, eleven millimeter
Used to stab the guts of corpses and pump liters
Of soap, then all the while
Aspirate and suck the bile
Oh my goodness friends, could life be any sweeter?

Oh I tie off all the veins and sew the stitches
And put eye caps in them ugly son-sa-bitches
Then I wipe ‘em down real clean with some disinfectant cream
(Just the fumes from this can make you crap your britches)
Now, we’re almost done, as the embalming goes
Just one more wad of cotton up the nose
The jaw is wired tight
And the makeup looks just right
Now I think it’s time to put her in some clothes

Oh my new electric hoist is something great
It can lift her fat ass right up from the slate
So that I may look beneath, and make sure there's not a leak
From an orifice there, before it is too late
Things look good, so now I put her in the box
Trim the nails, comb the hair, and fix the socks
Now its time to wax the lips, trim nose hair with a few nips
See?, I've made this old bag look like Goldie Locks

If it weren't for me, and others of my peers
There would be dead bodies piled above our ears
So please don't bitch at me about the gross indignities
Of the way we handle Granny way back here
Go up front where lights are brighter if you may
With the caskets, organ music and bouquets
Its not the undertaker's fault
As you go from morgue to vault
That we make money from your corpse along the way