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
 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