Here comes a figure with a low-slung cart / long white fingers, coal black heart / hauling his load down the dark city road / spits to the left, spits to the right / stops at the cemetery gates at night / takes his shovel, takes his sack / digs all the bones and throws them in the back / there’s a pelvis, a femur, backbone and humerus / tibia and fibula and others too numerous / he works all night by the light of the moon / then he takes all the bones to the catacombs / where he stacks them high, he stacks them low / the skulls in a line so they’re all on show / one’s the pastor, one’s the clerk / one’s the gardener who worked in the park / that’s the doctor, that’s the king / and that’s the end of my skip-ping