Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
"What the devil have you there?
I may trot from court to square,
Yet it neither swears nor groans,
When I jolt it over stones."
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
"Bones!"
Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
"What the devil have you there,
With that purple frozen stare?
Where the devil has it been
To get that shadow grin?"
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
"Skin!"
Said the hearse-horse to the coffin,
"What the devil have you there?
It has fingers, it has hair;
Yet it neither kicks nor squirms
At the undertaker's terms."
Said the coffin to the hearse-horse,
"Worms!"
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the brothers of ghouls, and who
In the name of the Crooked Saints are you?
We are the washers of shrouds wherein
The lovers of beauty who sainted sin
Sleep till the Judgment Day begin.
When the moon is drifting overhead,
We wash the linen of the dead,
Stained with yellow and stiff with red.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the foul night-washers, and who,
By the Seven Lovely sins are you?
Here we sit by the river reeds,
Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds,
And craving the help our labor needs.
Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to!
Show us for once what you can do!
One day there'll be washing enough for you.