Your funeral’s tomorrow

While you’re coming through the rye.

Diddlediddle dumdum

Diddlediddle⁠ ⁠…

Your funeral’s tomorrow While you’re coming through the rye. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle⁠ ⁠…

―Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen’s womaneyes said melancholily.

Now that’s quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.