Lyrics:

I, the under-mentioned, by this document
Do declare my true intentions, my last will, my testament
When I turn up my toes, when I rattle my clack, when I agonise,
I want no great wet weepings, no tearing of hair, no wringing of hands,
No sighs, no lack-a-days, no woe-is-me's and none of your sad adieus
Go, go, go and get the priest and then go get the booze, boys

Death, where is thy victory? Grave, where is thy sting?
When I snuff it bury me quickly, then let carousels begin
But not a do with a few ham sandwiches, a sausage roll or two and 'A small port wine, please'
Roll the carpet right back, get cracking with your old Gay Gordons
And your knees up, shake it up, live it up, sup it up, hell of a kind of a time
And if the coppers come around, well, tell them the party's mine, boys

Let best beef be eaten, fill every empty glass,
Let no breast be beaten, let no tooth be gnashed
Don't bother with a fancy tombstone or a big-deal angel or a little copper flower pot
Grow a dog-rose in my eyes or a pussy-willow
But no forget-me-nots, no epitaphs, no keepsakes; you can let my memory slip
You can say a prayer or two for me soul then, but make it quick, boys

Lady, if your bosom is heaving don't waste your bosom on me
Let it heave for a man who's breathing, a man who can feel, a man who can see
And to my cronies, you can read my books, you can drive around in my motor car
And you can fish your trout with my fly and tackle, you can play on my guitar,
And sing my songs, wear my shirts, you can even settle my debts
You can kiss my little missus if she's willing then, but no regrets, boys

Your rosebuds are numbered
Gather them now for rosebuds' sake
And if your hands aren't too encumbered
Gather a bud or two for Jake