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A 15th Century(?) ditty not for the weak-kneed.
Don't laugh when you see a Duke walk by
For you may be the next to die.
On the field, as your helm caves in.
His sword is buried down to your chin.
They'll throw you in an old black hearse,
And toss you out at a place much worse.
They'll carry you out to the family plot
Where there you'll wither, decay, and rot.
They'll drag you out, and lower you down,
And men with shovels will gather 'round.
They wrap you up in a bloody sheet
And steal the boots right off your feet
Your family will cry and moan and weep
As they bury you under six feet deep.
All goes well for about a week
But then the coffin starts to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,
The worms play pinochle on your snout.
They use your tongue for diving boards
And swim around your vocal cords.
They're in your eyes, they're in your hair.
Worms crawl over you everywhere.
They call their friends and their buddies, too.
They'll make a terrible mess of you.
Your body turns a slimey green
And pus runs out like whipping cream.
Your hair turns white, your skin turns blue,
You don't look like you used to do.
Your eyes fall in, your teeth fall out,
Your liver turns to sauerkraut.
Great big bugs with eyes of green
Crawl in your liver and out your spleen.
You become a thing that's very rare.
A smell worse than your underwear.
So don't laugh when you see a Duke walk by
For you may be the next to die.
