Half a bitter for the vicar.He's here to save your soul.He's looking fat and jovial,Though he's nearly on the dole.Anne Riley cooks his dinner,She keeps him washed and fed.She doesn't need much promptingTo jump into his bed.And they all thinkthey're so grand,Yes, they all thinkthey're so grand,Yes, they all thinkthey're so grand,But they're not, oh, no they're not.Dr. Watson drinks large whiskiesHe's nearly always high.He supplements his incomeAborting on the sly.Mrs. Thompson is an angelIn the W.V.S.:Her meals on wheels are very cheap,And she cooks the books for less.Sammy Cohen is the bookieSitting over thereDrinking three star brandy,He doesn't seem to care.No-one wants to know him.They say he's been inside.They say his dear old motherCommitted suicide.Dr. Watson charged Anne RileyA fifty guinea feeFor mr. Thompson's peace of mindAs far as I can see.Mrs. Thompson envies AnnieCooking for the preacher,And everyone thinks SamIs a quite disgusting creature,But if the truth was knownIt would shake all their foundations:It seems the preacher livesOn Sam's anonymous donations.
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