Whenever I get the last call,
whatever it is I’m in for,
from whomever severs the frail cord,
and wherever it is I fall, send me off
sharp with the sartorial regard
hardly afforded me in the cause
of flossing this tall drink-of-water when
dressing my cadaver in the morgue.
I'll be on that drab, metal slab,
packed in a black bag, passed in the lab.
Lay me on that black fabric and wrap
every apt limb like you would a cast.
Mark it with a chalk pencil at lengths
like they made the chalk stencil on pavement.
So when the last day's on the wane
I'll be rocking tailor-made in the grave.
Find me with that
Flat fold in the breast pocket,
A silk square for the pop when I'm in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down with the
French cuffs crisp on the wrists
and a B.R. etched in the links for my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Fresh-wound Grand-dad’s watch
With the alligator skin band copped for my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down with the
Spread collar on the neckline and a
half Windsor in the tie when I'm in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down.
See I've been a man in clothes thirty years,
rarely felt a moment's comfort in the gear.
Always had an old-school wardrobe vision:
couple suits, set of shirts fitted. But you'd better
do a justice to the clothes if a
made-to-measure bolt's getting sewn.
See, I'm giving up the ghost and the devil's in the
details on the host.
I don't want no makeup on the face.
Paint ain't but a clown's layer on the cake.
Blue-grey hues stay on the pate.
Grace in the pall. Plain as the day.
Get me out the cage that awaits.
Plenty time for a fate in a cave.
Lay me on a bier framed for the case.
Let the leather tan sunbathed in the rays.
Give a little splash of cologne,
fresh dab of the eau, a waft in the tomb,
scent for the graft memory to proof
when the spades set clay on the roof.
Sooth, any good suit in the grief's
Just a better butcher paper for the meat.
But, see I'm rocking the fit for keeps:
bespoke PJs for the long sleep...
Find me with that
Flat fold in the breast pocket,
A silk square for the pop when I'm in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down with the
French cuffs crisp on the wrists
and a B.R. etched in the links for my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Fresh-wound Grand-dad’s watch
With the alligator skin band copped for my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down with the
Spread collar on the neckline and a
half Windsor in the tie when I'm in my
Three piece suit. Get down in my
Three piece suit. Get down.
Find me in that oak coffin in deep muck,
sarcophagus bolt-run,
encased in cement plug,
dumped in and locked up.
Find me with my lids clutched fast to the cap,
eyes sunk 'neath the round plastic,
skin slipped and the face slack,
front gums caulk-packed.
Find me with that jaw sewn through the palate shut,
back cavity cotton-stuffed,
sutured up, brains sloshed
in a pitch black skull cup.
Find me in that embalming fluid, in some nice
dilute solution, stewing in juices,
floating in that bath pickled,
marinating in that cask liquor.
