| The leather soles go shuffling in
|
| Stinking of smoke and ten cent gin
|
| Now who will toast our noble host
|
| That has this morning given up the ghost?
|
| The wooden coffer hand to hand
|
| Kind words are offered, silent prayers
|
| But she is satisfied the most
|
| While stabbing madly at the roast
|
| The rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve
|
| The sons of Cain receive no reprieve
|
| The creditor rides with his men
|
| The death of debtors he won’t forgive
|
| They repossess his silver eyes
|
| Now in the potter’s field he lies
|
| The rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve
|
| The sons of Cain receive no reprieve
|
| Waiting for a dead man’s shoes
|
| Have you heard the latest news?
|
| Lazarus is back from the dead
|
| Looking as one would expect
|
| Dripping with the waters of Sheol
|
| Babbling about body and soul
|
| And then he found his wife
|
| In their bed buck naked and already wed
|
| The tax collector beneath his sheets
|
| The door swings open, floorboards creak
|
| Now who will toast our noble host
|
| Who has this morning given up the ghost?
|
| The rib of Adam, the eyes of Eve
|
| The sons of Cain receive no reprieve |