Burial Waltz - The Fugs

Do not surround me with wreathes of flowers

Nor place upon my body the signs of a fetish

Nor crescent, cross, phallus or sun

But bury me in an apple orchard

That I might touch your lips again

Bury me in an apple orchard

That I might touch your lips again

Look at me when you glance

At the spring apple flower

Speak of me into a breeze

Blowing over your fingers

Taste of me when your lips taste the froth

Foaming out of the apple meat

Do not surround me with wreathes of flowers

Nor place upon my body the signs of a fetish

Nor crescent, cross, phallus or sun

But bury me in an apple orchard

That I might touch your lips again

Bury me in an apple orchard

That I might touch your lips again