Songtext von 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)