There's a little churchyard just along the way. It used to be Lambeth's finest array. Of tombstones epitaphs wreaths flowers all that jazz. Till the war came along and someone dropped a bomb on the lot. And in this little yard there's a little old man. With a little shovel in his little bitty hand. He seems to spend all his days puffing fags and digging graves. He hates the reverend vicar and he lives all alone in his home. Ah-choo ! excuse me. Please Mr. Gravedigger don't feel ashamed. As you dig little holes for the dead and the maimed. Please Mr. Gravedigger I couldn't care. If you found a golden locket full of some girl's hair. And you put it in your pocket. God it's pouring down. Her mother doesn't know about your sentimental joy. She thinks it's down below with the rest of her toys. And Ma wouldn't understand so I won't tell. So keep your golden locket all safely hid away in your pocket. Yes Mr. GD you see me every day  st ....ah choo !. Standing in the same spot by a certain grave. Mary-Ann was only 10 full of life and oh so gay. And I was the wicked man who took her life away. Very selfish Oh God. No Mr. GD you won't tell. And just to make sure that you keep it to yourself. I've started digging holes myself. And this one here's for you. Lifted our girl she apparently doesn't know of it. Hello misses thought she'd be a little girl. Bloody obscene catch pneumonia or something in this rain.