| The maggots feed they feed on him
|
| Well some they laugh and some give in
|
| You cannot breathe the putrid air
|
| The bastard’s dead and no one cares
|
| There are no relatives or friends
|
| The sad condolences descend
|
| The pauper’s grave is all that’s left
|
| No one to pay their last respects
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| Your life was right your life was wrong
|
| The virtues and the vice all gone
|
| His mother’s heart would surely wrench
|
| To see the poverty and stench
|
| A social worker does discard
|
| A box of letters and postcards
|
| The only records of a life
|
| That now has passed into the light
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| Do you ever wonder that you’d be
|
| Left all alone and lonely
|
| The same as him on Judgement Day
|
| Left all alone to fade away
|
| Because you lack the social skills
|
| And then grow old and then grow ill
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty and so poor
|
| To die in filth in filth obscure
|
| To die so dirty dirty dirty
|
| Dirty dirty dirty dirty and so poor |