Lyrics:

Telephone call
Telling me
My old friend Graham had died
I took a ride
Down to where I
Could be of assistance

I said to his wife
Dont give in
To grieving cliche and turn
His side of the room
Into a shrine
It just doesnt work

My arm round her shoulder
Gently I told her
Dead men dont need season tickets

Now that hes gone
Youre gonna need
A helping hand with the lawn
Various chores
Not least of all
Those funeral arrangements

If I were you
Id get myself
Away from all that relates
Week in the lakes
Reasonable rates
Early September

Now Im no hotelier
Just thought Id tell yer
Dead men dont need season tickets

Maybe Im forward
Maybe Im morbid
Dead men dont need season tickets

Dead men dont need season tickets
In a mortuary
In the mortuary
In the mortuary
In the mortuary