I ran my Lady through mangles...
_
I ran my Lady through mangles
As black as the bracken of Bruges,
Everso thankful, she lit me a candle
That tasted so playfully smooth.
So I called up the postman post-hastefully
To bring her a bucket of belts
But by now she was green and judged it obscene
And packed me away on a shelf.
So I sat and I sang for my supper
Of butter-fried boson and Spam
But over my dish, she was sick as a fish,
So I laughed and I left in my pram.
I ran my Lady through mangles
As black as the bracken of Bruges,
Everso thankful, she lit me a candle
That tasted so playfully smooth.
So I called up the postman post-hastefully
To bring her a bucket of belts
But by now she was green and judged it obscene
And packed me away on a shelf.
So I sat and I sang for my supper
Of butter-fried boson and Spam
But over my dish, she was sick as a fish,
So I laughed and I left in my pram.
