歌词
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... Funereal they march