The old archduke with the Death Rattle Blues Sat hacking up a lung. And in his grief he grit his teeth And bit off half his tongue.
He called for the coppersmith to come And ten able-bodied men To craft a contraption to patch him up And this is what they sing:
“Hasten ye fellows! Fasten the bellows! Pump him til he’s dead. Oompah til his eyes pop out And the guage is in the red.
Sharpen, ye fellows, the dark mandocellos Send soldiers into town. Sound the sousaphone-fare And let out with a shout,
Iron Lung Oompah! Glockenspiel und Tuba! Join the funeral march and chorus, A Grim Hymn from the deep Black Forest. Take a long deep breath and sing your Iron Lung Oompah!”
The old archduke in his tinman suit turned fire engine red. From a purple hue to a still-born blue Indicating he was dead.
The rivets started poppin’ out His monocle cracked in half. His head spun and the clockwork drum Blew off in a blast.
The regicidal maniacs stood round in a ring of fire. Left abaft by the copper shaft Not knowing “what now” or “why?”