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Neil Gaiman
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Mr. Punch
Everybody gets it sometime, sorry
Virus, fire, gryoscope, lear jet, lorry
Choking on a chicken bone lurking in lunch;
And you're dead, dead, dead!
But not Mr. Punch
That Mr. Punch, he's a rum one, ain't he?
Strapping as his yapping little wife is dainty
Hit her with a big stick, give her what for
And she's dead, dead, dead
On the crimson floor
That Mr. Punch, he's a rum one, ain't he?
Strapping as his yapping little wife is dainty
Hit her with a big stick, give her what for
And she's dead, dead, dead
On the crimson floor
In the real world, all effects are casual
Amble backstage, see the sticks and swozzle
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Talk to the Professor of the tricks of his trade
Ask him for his flask, it's only lemonade...
But,
Here comes a Crocodile, here comes Clootie
Hear the Beadle wheedle, and the ghost of Judy
Rattling her ribs in rodomontade
They're all dead, dead, dead
In the old arcade
Here comes a Crocodile, here comes Clootie
Hear the Beadle wheedle, and the ghost of Judy
Rattling her ribs in rodomontade
They're all dead, dead, dead
In the old arcade
They're all dead, dead, dead
In the old arcade
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