Mister Marcel is a gravedigger
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Like there are plenty elsewhere
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But his sleep's elastic
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It's not rare that between two clods of earth
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He falls asleep upright in his boots
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That only bothers the survivors
Who have to come back the next day
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From sleeping so much on his pickaxe
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And eyelids shaped like ovals
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Heavy as a tombstone
Round here we know the rumor
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You'd better give notice when you die
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But without getting into details
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Everything'll depend on your size
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If you have to sleep under the heather
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I'd rather know I'm in a Gruyère
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I want a Mister Marcel
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To dig my plot
Yesterday the widow of a general
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Who thought she heard death rattles
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Had the monument reopened
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All that for a few snores
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Looks like having stripes
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Gives his widow long reach
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She just had to extend it
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Mister Marcel's out of a job
For your laying in the casket
For your laying in the casket
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If you have to sleep under the heather
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I'd rather know I'm in a Gruyère
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I want a Mister Marcel
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To dig my plot