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

(repeat)

In the real world, all effects are casual

Amble backstage, see the sticks and swozzle

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

(repeat)