Текст песни That's Your Funeral (London Symphony Orchestra) с переводом

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.

That’s your funeral.

Large enough to wear your hat in.

That’s your funearl.

That’s your funeral.

We’re just here to glamourize you for that

Endless sleep.

You might just as well look fetching

When you’re six feet deep.

At the wake we’ll drink a toddy

To the body beautiful.

That’s your funeral.

Not our funeral.

That’s your funeral.

If you’re fond of overeating

That’s your funeral.

That’s your funeral.

Starve yourself by undereating

That’s your funeral.

That’s your funeral?

Visualize the earth descentind on you clod by clod.

You can’t come back when you’re buried

Underneath the… sod.

We will not reduce our prices.

Keep your vices usual.

That’s your funeral.

Not our funeral.

Not our funeral.

That’s your funeral.

I don’t think this song is funny.

That’s your funeral.

Here’s the boy, now where’s the money?

That’s your funeral.

That’s your funeral.

We don’t harbour thoughts macabre,

There’s no need to frown.

In the end we’ll either burn you up or nail you donw.

We love coughs and wheezes

And diseases called incurable.

That’s your funeral.

No one else’s funearl.

That’s your…

That’s your…

Funeral!

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