Half Man Half Biscuit Tending The Wrong Grave For 23 Years
A mistake has been made
It’s a fact they can’t hide
Though I’m partly to blame
It cannot be denied
There ain’t no use defending
It seems I’ve been tending
The wrong grave for 23 years
A letter dropped onto my doormat one day
And I thought "I'll ignore that, it might go away"
And I took up my shears
To the place where for years
I presumed my sweet darling had lain
Curse those in charge of plots
Curse these forget-me-nots
I’ve been sharing my innermost thoughts with an Edward
McCrae
I'm inconsolable and at times uncontrollable
Ah but she wouldn’t know cause she’s two hundred metres
away
Let’s complain
On my long weary journey back home I took the less
frequented path and ended up in the Meadow of
Consolation. It was a magical place – I half expected a
nymph to appear, shyly from out of the brake. Some not
unexpected sheep from the brushwood; and me dressed as
a dandy in practice for the Summer Eights, even the
glebe cow started to drool, but then, almost
inevitably, Claire Rayner appeared
I'm numb from the sting
That I've been tending
The wrong grave for 23 years
I walked up in autumn
I ran up in spring
To the wrong grave for 23 years
Oh ding-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling
Now ain't that a thing
The wrong grave for 23 years
The wrong grave for 23 years
The wrong grave for 23 years
