Oh, the trumpet shall sound, dear,
And the dead be pearly white,
And a jack knife incorruptible
Shall be way out of sight.
When that change bites with its teeth, dear,
Scarlet trumpets begin to sound,
And the dead shall be raised, dear—
A cement body dropping down.
On the sidewalk, Sunday trumpet,
You can bet that bag is dead.
Someone’s sneaking, incorruptible,
And we shall be red.