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 [bad word] 
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 [bad word] 
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 [bad word] 
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?”