[Intro] [Jaunty, macabre vaudeville piano] [Marching band snare drum, crisp and fast] [Vocals theatrical and boastful, sung like Gerard Way] [Verse 1] I dig the perfect rectangle, exactly six feet down! The finest cemetery architect in this decaying town! I measure out the corners, I pat the dirt so neat For the honorable mayor and the butcher down the street The council made a ruling, a very strange decree We only bury bodies when it's Friday, don't you see? They bring the wooden boxes as the sun begins to set I smile and I nod, making sure the soil is wet. [Chorus] [Explosive theatrical emo-punk energy, driving bass] Oh, the Friday night funerals, a marvelous affair! The weeping of the widows filling up the autumn air! We put them in the ground right before the weekend breaks! A beautiful tradition for the dear departed’s sakes! Yes, the Friday night funerals! [Verse 2] [Snare drum and piano only, bouncing rhythm] I pat the heavy shovel on my shoulder with a grin The town folks go to sleep, and my real work can begin! Because Friday is for sorrow, but Saturday is grand! I crack the coffins open with my own two blistered hands! I hoist the stiffened corpses from their comfortable repose I brush the heavy graveyard clay from their Sunday clothes I drag them to the greenhouse at the bottom of the hill Where the silver tea is pouring and the night is very still! [Chorus] [Full punk-rock orchestration, frantic and catchy] Oh, the Friday night funerals, a marvelous affair! The weeping of the widows filling up the autumn air! We put them in the ground right before the weekend breaks! A beautiful tradition for the dear departed’s sakes! Yes, the Friday night funerals! [Bridge] [Tempo slows, eerie waltzing time signature] [Strings swell dramatically] I set them at the table, prop them up in wooden chairs. The butcher and the mayor, completely unawares. I pour the steaming Earl Grey, I offer them a scone. A lovely little gathering of rotting flesh and bone! But tonight the mayor slumps, his head hits the cup. I go to fix his posture... but his eyes are looking up. [Verse 3 - The Twist] [Chaotic, double-time punk beat, aggressive guitars] [Vocals frantic and panicked] The dead don't want the pastry! The dead don't want the tea! The butcher turns his rigid, gray neck to look at me! They haven't been my puppets, they were resting for the feast! The hunger of the buried has been violently released! They lock the greenhouse door, knocking over all the plates! The host is on the menu for his decomposing mates! [Outro] [Massive theatrical crescendo, crashing cymbals] They're biting through my shoulder! They're pulling at my chest! The Friday night funerals have laid me to rest! I should have left them buried! [Manic piano glissando followed by a loud, sudden scream] [End]
