Here I stand, stand before,

The most frightening of door.

The door to the morgue

How I hate that door!

Many quake at that door,

For thought of the morgue.

The morgue that makes sore

Mem'ries of before.

Wich strikes at thier core

Many hearts near the door.

The door to the morgue,

Where men'v burned before.

The unpleasant odor

Of charred sycamore

Mingled evermore

With an ill gotten sore.

The sore of a loved one!

And I fall to my knees...

How I hate, hate that door!

The door to the mogue.