Saint Vitus came to my town and visited the cemetery.
The dead got up and everything became one big cacophony.
They all went down the social and they claimed their supplementary,
and all the necrophiliacs were walking round in misery.

The rattling mass of calcium went shopping in the superstore
careering down the aisles like one big psychopathic carnivore
The shelf-stacker's work of art in ecstacy crashed to the floor,
and, meanwhile, the saint was going crazy at the fire door.

Ah, the beautiful, sparkling healthy spa water of Bath, in Avon.

I hate Nerys Hughes.
I hate Nerys Hughes.
I hate Nerys Hughes.
I hate Nerys Hughes.

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