| There’s a little churchyard just along the way
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| It used to be Lambeth’s finest array
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| Of tombstones, epitaphs, wreaths, flowers, all that jazz
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| Till the war come along and someone dropped a bomb on the lot
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| And in this little yard, there’s a little old man
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| With a little shovel in his little bitty hand
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| He seems to spend all his days puffing fags and digging graves
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| He hates the reverend vicar and he lives all alone in his home
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| «Ah-choo, excuse me»
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| Please Mr. Gravedigger, don’t feel ashamed
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| As you dig little holes for the dead and the maimed
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| Please Mr. Gravedigger, I couldn’t care
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| If you found a golden locket full of some girl’s hair
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| And you put it in your pocket
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| «God, it’s pouring down»
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| Her mother doesn’t know about your sentimental joy
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| She thinks it’s down below with the rest of her toys
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| And Ma wouldn’t understand, so I won’t tell
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| So keep your golden locket all safely hid away in your pocket
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| Yes, Mr. GD, you see me every day
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| Ah-choo!
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| Standing in the same spot by a certain grave
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| Mary-Ann was only 10 and full of life and oh so gay
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| And I was the wicked man who took her life away
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| Very selfish, oh God
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| No, Mr. GD, you won’t tell
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| And just to make sure that you keep it to yourself
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| I’ve started digging holes my friend
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| And this one here’s for you
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| «Lifted our girl, she apparently doesn’t know of it
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| Hello misses, thought she’d be a little girl
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| Bloody obscene, (crikey) catch pneumonia or something in this rain…» |