Saint Billy of Laight
No sneezyng younge loggs
But a fir that spits from its mowth
Andde a glasse of real whysky in my perrier sparklyng
O swete brests of my grande ladye
That hydes her buttockes in bedde till late noone
Andde my sons and daughters alive atte dawne
When the moone is pale andde my passion gawne
Andde my chariot colde in thy garage synce last nyghte
O I bring thee a belly welldynnered andde wined
Withe Château Yquem andde Grand Chambertain andde
The praise of her who lyves withe the Kyng
And sleeps withe the Queene andde loves but me
O Rockfeller and the bible must be ryghte
We aint gonna wear no clothes in heabben.
But a fir that spits from its mowth
Andde a glasse of real whysky in my perrier sparklyng
O swete brests of my grande ladye
That hydes her buttockes in bedde till late noone
Andde my sons and daughters alive atte dawne
When the moone is pale andde my passion gawne
Andde my chariot colde in thy garage synce last nyghte
O I bring thee a belly welldynnered andde wined
Withe Château Yquem andde Grand Chambertain andde
The praise of her who lyves withe the Kyng
And sleeps withe the Queene andde loves but me
O Rockfeller and the bible must be ryghte
We aint gonna wear no clothes in heabben.
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