Love that carrion, lunch on carrion. . .
Gorge intestines, and the course is Marian,
And he’s swell, her brother;
Some other comfort food is mother.

Love that carrion, lunch of carrion;
It’s an icky food, exhumed from buryin’.
Repast: local gentry,
’cause the graveyard ain’t got a sentry.

Cry, friends die—you must cremate them or there’ll be chewin’.
Dine, fiends dine upon a hand and thumb, and you’ll be ruin’.

Love that carrion, love that carrion.
Go for incineration, not buryin’
If they have their druthers:
It’s Cam for lunch, it’s Nan for brunch, it’s Stan to munch
’monst many others.