Song to a Spillage (part 2)

This is the second part of a song written by John Kirkpatrick (a famous folk music artist) around 50 years ago. The first part was published yesterday

EDDIE BAKER'S MUCKSPREADER (John Kirkpatrick) – part 2

5. Now the greasy pole was greasier than ever known before
And the ice-cream had a chocolate sauce no palate could ignore
And into the coffee coloured candy-floss Grannie Walker plunged her teeth
And forever more the ones on top were stuck to the ones beneath
And in the tug-o-war there were broken bones galore
There was blood all round the bottle stall as both teams slithered through
There was chaos round the cake stall, the tea was more like glue
Cos you didn't just get sugar when they asked "One lump or two?"

6. Now Geraldine the carnival queen was looking all forlorn
She got browner than she bargained for as she sunbathed on the lawn
It gave a fatal heart attack to next door's Pekinese
Whilst upon its back a skating match took place amongst its fleas
And the force of the cascade swept the goldfish of Miss Blade
Right up into the hanging basket down at number twenty three
And it dumped the Johnson's tortoise in the birdbath at the Jones
And wiped the smile right off the face of their plastic garden gnomes

7. Now the Reverend Roderick Butterworth was sitting down to eat
When the perilous plague of pestilence came belting down the street
Some of it fell on among the thorns, some fell on stony ground
And some fell on his car outside with all its windows down
"Oh bugger" said the vicar as he swigged some demon liquor
"I suppose we should be thankful it's not St Swithins Day
But even my insurance doesn't cover Act of God
And I know the Scouts are going to say "Stuff this for bob-a-job"

8. So he trundled through the village, down the road and past the hall
And where he'd been for years after all the weeds grew ten feet tall
And he never knew the chaos that he'd caused along his way
And he never heard the crashes as he crossed the motorway
And in time he'll dwell on high in that great muckheap in the sky
Where St Peter'll duck for cover every time he passes by
It'll rust up all their halos, it'll clog up all their wings
As wiping s**t from off their faces, all the angels they will sing...
Down the road went Eddie Baker in his rattling old boneshaker
And he never knew the trail he left behind him