Wilson-McReynolds Funeral Home

The midnight hour, the darkest hour that human grief may know, sends forth its hurried summons, asks me to come, I go. I know not when the bell may toll, I know not where the bow may fall, I only know that I must go in answer to the call. Perhaps a friend, perhaps unknown, tis fate that turns the wheel, the tangled skein of human life winds slowly on the reel.

And I? I'm the undertaker, "cold-blooded" you'll hear them say, "Trained to the shock and chill of death, with a heart that's cold and grey". Trained, that's what they call it, how little they know the rest, I'm human, and know the sorrow that throbs in the aching breast.