[Intro]
[Resonator guitar answers the squeak of a catalogue binder.]

[Verse 1 - Anubis, deep male baritone]
Page seventeen says walnut brown,
Soft-latching lid when they lay you down.
Page eighteen has a brighter shine,
With corner guards and a velvet line.
Code C-12 means modest grace,
Code C-13 adds a viewing face.
I’ve crossed whole deserts, paid old dues—
Now I’ve got the coffin catalogue blues.

[Chorus - Anubis, deep male baritone]
I’ve got the coffin catalogue blues,
Pick your finish, pick your screws.
Oak for the faithful, pine if you choose,
Everybody gets the catalogue blues.
But no stock number, trim or view
Can tell me who was loved by you.

[Verse 2 - Anubis, deep male baritone]
The salesman says, “This model moves.
People like bronze and rounded grooves.”
He raps the lid with a wedding-ring hand:
“Good margin here, and the hinges are grand.”
A mother asks for the cheapest shell;
He shows her one he knows won’t sell.
I turn the page and break the rules:
“This plain one holds the sacred too.”

[Chorus - Anubis, deep male baritone]
I’ve got the coffin catalogue blues,
Pick your finish, pick your screws.
Oak for the wealthy, pine if you choose,
Everybody gets the catalogue blues.
But no stock number, trim or view
Can tell me who was loved by you.

[Instrumental Break]
[Resonator guitar bends a low phrase over brushed 12/8 drums.]

[Verse 3 - Anubis, deep male baritone]
There’s a child-size section near the back,
Past the copper line and the travel pack.
The pages there are clean and thin;
Even the salesman won’t look in.
I shut the book when the room turns pale,
Hear my old scales beneath the sale.
No varnished box can hide the news:
The dead are not the things we choose.

[Bridge - Anubis, deep male baritone]
I knew cedar cut for queens,
Painted eyes and burial scenes.
But craft was service, wood was prayer,
Not leverage drawn from a family’s despair.
A coffin closes once at best;
The living carry all the rest.

[Final Chorus - Anubis, deep male baritone]
I’ve got the coffin catalogue blues,
No more codes and approved reviews.
Let the grain be plain, let the brass be few;
Make room for the name the mourners knew.
Shut the catalogue, face the truth—
A box holds bones, not living proof.

[Outro - Anubis, deep male baritone]
Page seventeen slides to the floor.
The blues keep time with the basement door.
