He pulls a Cadaver behind him on a cart
full of bones
with only a lantern to guide him                                                             as as Shame and sorrow are holding pitch forks and ropes .
On dark  cobbold streets made of stone ,
his dark arts of brutality and bone .

But For this love he would give the heart of this man ,
who once walked these streets with purse strings in hand ,
For now his bones are all accounted for in the price they might fetch .
Each counted seperatly and left on a shelf .

A for a few shillings more and  a great deal of wealth ,
A crypt for the dying
a statue of stone,
for their wealth .



Four Silver bells he would ring ,
just before tea
as their servants made room for his lady and me .
and placed before us a banquet of meat ,
that no one was ever  quite sure ,
Where it was from ,
but  was always a treat .

And every night the clock struck ten ,
With sorrow and shame ,
he would leave again ,
with Four silver bells this time ,
just to make sure
to leave one inside ,
for the rich and the poor .
For every corpse has his bride
and if she dos’nt ring ,
a ting a ling ling ,
he will be out digging once more ,
that is for sure .