The Embalmer

The embalmer is in so let me begin,
she makes the incision, she draws the blood
out it floods in pools of crimson,
drips to the floor with a deafening thud.
At night she sings to them,
their stares are harsh and cold.
At night she sings to them,
as up their souls will float
and she sings
Ladada ladada
song for the suffering, song for the dead
Ladada ladada
it gets them from this world into the next.
The embalmer is in so let me begin,
she writes her stories she writes her prose.
Cutting, gutting, sewing and mending,
the smile from her face it never goes.
And when she’s had enough
she’ll go work in a coffee shop,
but these jobs are the same,
the people are all so lame.