I live in the cemetery, old caretaker they call me. In the wintertime I rake the leaves and in the summer I cut the weeds. When a funeral comes the people cry and pray, they bury their dead then they all go away. And here I work and I somehow hide from a world that rushes by outside. But each night when I rest my head I'm contented as the peaceful dead. But who's gonna cry when old John dies, who's gonna cry when old John dies. Once I was a young man dashing with the girls, now no one wants an old man, I lost my handsome curls. But I want to say when my time comes, lay me facing the rising sun. Put me in a corner where I buried my pup, tell the preacher to pray then cover me up. Don't plant flowers where my head should be, maybe God would let some grow from me. And all the little children that I love like my own, will they be sorry that old John's gone. Who's gonna cry when old John dies, who's gonna cry when old John dies.