An Undertaker/Grave Digger's Dirge:

They were Mothers, Fathers, Brothers, Sisters...
Aunts, Uncles, Widows, Spinsters...
All are now an empty shell,
And to their love ones we must sell, sell, sell.
We sell them what they least desire:
A proper grave, a funeral pyre.
They ask for hope, they ask for life
We give them grief, we give them strife.
And those that they had once held dear
are now an inspiration for fear.
Are their loved one's in those shells?
Or do they shriek and cry in hell?
Are they singing blissfully?
Or are cold shells all they'll ever be?
The shells themselves have no such worry
And our only job is to get them buried.