He was a mortician, but played the trombone
And those days when no one deigned give up the ghost
Alone with his coffins and his old gramophone
He took choruses with Tommy Dorsey
"There's no worthless trade", so the saying goes
And if you're going to make a living out of death
Choose anything but the army, become an embalmer!
It's easier than doctor and safer than hitman
So he was an undertaker, and would beat time
While unbuttoning three or four flats
His hidden fiancée, his one and only mistress
Was his instrument, perfumed with formaldehyde
Otherwise, he was always suited for the occasion
Sad-eyed when swindling grieving widows
Low-key when cashing insurance cheques
Consummate artist when arranging flowers on hearses
When Death came and told him: "We have to let you go"
They found him with his trombone pressed against his body
That's when he got his nickname: "Slide"
And his epitaph reads in golden letters:
"He was a mortician, but played the trombone
And those days when no one deigned give up the ghost
Alone with his coffins and his old gramophone
He took choruses with Tommy Dorsey"