Those were Ozzy Osbourne’s final words. Not a demand, not a plea—just a quiet request from a man who had roared through decades with fire in his throat and thunder at his back. In the end, the Prince of Darkness didn’t ask for a stadium farewell or a spectacle of pyrotechnics. He wanted something smaller. More human. He wanted Kelly.
And she made sure he got exactly that.
The room was cloaked in silence. Not the kind born of peace, but of grief—heavy, unmoving. The private funeral was held behind closed doors in a small gothic chapel in the English countryside, candlelit and velvet-draped. Ozzy’s coffin sat at the front, wrapped in black velvet, a single silver cross gleaming under the soft flicker of light. No speeches. No priests. Only those who had truly known him—his family, his bandmates, his oldest friends. And silence.
Until she stepped forward.
Kelly Osbourne’s heels clicked softly on the stone floor as she approached the coffin. She was dressed in black, her eyes swollen from days of crying, yet she moved with purpose. A daughter on a mission. The air shifted around her—everyone could feel it. Sharon Osbourne sat in the front row, clutching a folded lyric sheet and a handkerchief, her composure a thin veil barely holding back decades of shared love and chaos.
Kelly didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. She stood still for a moment beside the man who had taught her what rebellion meant, who had raised her in the eye of the rock ‘n’ roll storm. Then, quietly, she began to sing.
It wasn’t one of Ozzy’s hits. It wasn’t “Crazy Train” or “Mama, I’m Coming Home.” It was “Papa Don’t Preach”—the Madonna cover she had recorded during her early 2000s rebellion. Back then, it was loud, punk-infused, and soaked in teenage angst. Now, it was something entirely different. Kelly had reworked it with her mother the week before the funeral, rewriting the arrangement into a stripped-down ballad. Just piano. Just voice. Just heartbreak.
Her voice was raw—clear but trembling under the weight of what it carried. The words took on new meaning. *”But I made up my mind, I’m keeping my baby.”* It wasn’t about a fight anymore—it was about faith, about holding on, about the unshakable bond between father and daughter. What had once been teenage rebellion was now a love letter to the man who had accepted her, protected her, forgiven her again and again.
The room seemed suspended in time. Even the rock legends—men who had spent lifetimes drenched in volume and bravado—stood frozen, some weeping silently, others gripping each other’s shoulders. No phones. No applause. Just presence.
As the final note drifted into silence, Kelly bowed her head. For a moment, no one moved. And then—softly, as if afraid to break the moment—Sharon stood and walked to her daughter, wrapping her in an embrace so fierce it seemed to anchor them both. Together, they stood beside the man they had both loved so fiercely, so differently, and yet with the same, undying loyalty.
Later, someone said that the performance felt like a prayer. Others said it was more powerful than any stadium show Ozzy had ever given—and maybe it was. Because in that chapel, with no amps, no lights, and no crowd, a daughter gave her father the only thing she could. Her voice.