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I, the under-mentioned, by this document |
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Do declare my true intentions, my last will, my testament |
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When I turn up my toes, when I rattle my clack, when I agonise, |
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I want no great wet weepings, no tearing of hair, no wringing of hands, |
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No sighs, no lack-a-days, no woe-is-me's and none of your sad adieus |
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Go, go, go and get the priest and then go get the booze, boys |
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Death, where is thy victory? Grave, where is thy sting? |
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When I snuff it bury me quickly, then let carousels begin |
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But not a do with a few ham sandwiches, a sausage roll or two and "A small port wine, please" |
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Roll the carpet right back, get cracking with your old Gay Gordons |
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And your knees up, shake it up, live it up, sup it up, hell of a kind of a time |
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And if the coppers come around, well, tell them the party's mine, boys |
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Let best beef be eaten, fill every empty glass, |
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Let no breast be beaten, let no tooth be gnashed |
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Don't bother with a fancy tombstone or a big-deal angel or a little copper flower pot |
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Grow a dog-rose in my eyes or a pussy-willow |
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But no forget-me-nots, no epitaphs, no keepsakes; you can let my memory slip |
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You can say a prayer or two for me soul then, but make it quick, boys |
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Lady, if your bosom is heaving don't waste your bosom on me |
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Let it heave for a man who's breathing, a man who can feel, a man who can see |
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And to my cronies, you can read my books, you can drive around in my motor car |
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And you can fish your trout with my fly and tackle, you can play on my guitar, |
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And sing my songs, wear my shirts, you can even settle my debts |
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You can kiss my little missus if she's willing then, but no regrets, boys |
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Your rosebuds are numbered |
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Gather them now for rosebuds' sake |
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And if your hands aren't too encumbered |
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Gather a bud or two for Jake |
