Everything, everything, up in the trees
Trees, trees, blow in the breeze
Everything up in the trees will fall,
Fall on our noggins and end us all.

Easy the breeze that will blow it all down
Eleven black hearses to haul us to town
Elderly mourners to cry us to rest
Everything’s all for the best, the best
The best, the best, the best.

Image: Emil Orlick, Ein Windstoß (1901).