Wun Hung Lo worked in a laundry in a wild west town.
He collected laundry, and corpses, before rotting brown.
He wheeled a wicker trolley, with wheels that did squeak.
With his pigtail and buck teeth he looked like a freak.
Folk lying half asleep in their hotel bed.
Would, in the morning, hear that noise they did dread.
Squeak, squeak, squeak, punctuated with gasps.
As Wun Hung Lo, the trolley handle grasps.
Then they would hear the thud of a body,
Thrown into the wicker basket, not at all shoddy.

Wun Hung Lo then squeaked along, to the undertakers shop.
Before he could, his odious cargo drop.
The undertaker would say, in a voice most jolly.
“How busy you are, with your squeaky trolley.”
Wun Hung Lo, “Cowboy his talking don’ stop.”
“And so they give him quick chop, chop!”
“They shoot him quick quick, not velly nice,”
“His mouf still full of steamy flied lice.”

The undertaker would empty the deceased’s pockets.
Removing watches, rings and lockets.
If there was money in his purse,
Into a cash till, it could be worse!
It would pay for any burial overhead.
The only way to meet costs, if you are dead!
And that undertaker did always arrange,
Things so that there was never any change!

Then, off he went, Wun Hung Lo,
Pushing his squeaky trolley quite slow.
A great mound of soiled laundry on board,
While his squeaky wheels did loudly applaud,
“Dead folk don’t mind dirty laundly,”
As he unloaded his basket very fondly.