The Paddington Frisk

To be strung up on a leafless tree, Where everything dies and nothing grows Hanging like moulding fruit One last dance whilst you decompose On come the paddington spectacles A black plague over all I admired A vegetable breakfast, a hearty choke Seems like the whole world conspired But there stood a man He was cut up, distraught and cold But amongst the wreckage of his ribcage His heart still thudded as he said I regard myself as a soldier Though a soldier of peace I know the value of discipline and truth I must ask you to believe me when I say