On the Battlements
Is this a ghost goes bumpy-bump?
No, no, a horrid heffalump.
It is a ghost. It see it frown.
It's heffalumping up and down.
I must go on. I have no choice.
It's got a heffalumpy voice.
I know that voice and it's my pappy.
We'll catch it in a heffatrappy.
He speaks unto my very soul.
A heffattrappy sort of hole.
He tells me I must kill the king.
A hole-y, pitt-y sort of thing.
Alas, I fear that I will rue it.
Elevenses with Pooh would do it.
A bloody business, raw and rough.
Haycorns and hunny! That's the stuff.
|