Вступление
(intro) F# E (x4)
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 don’t give into grieving cliché and turn
His side of the room into a shrine, it just doesn’t work.
My arm round her shoulder, gently I told her
E Eb G#m (instr) F# E (x4)
Dead men don’t need season tickets.
Now that he’s gone you’re gonna need a helping hand with the lawn
Various chores – not least of all, those funeral arrangements.
If I were you I’d get myself away from all that relates
Week in the lakes, reasonable rates early September.
Now I’m no hotelier, just thought I’d tell yer
Dead men don’t need season tickets.
Maybe I’m forward, maybe I’m morbid
Dead men don’t need season tickets.
Dead men don’t need season tickets.
In the mortuary, in the mortuary
In the mortuary, in the mortuary.