by justbekozlowski

It’s Saturday night,

And I’m tucked up tight,

There are germs in the street,

And they give me a fright,

You see, I must sing on Tuesday,

And not have cough nor cold,

For if I’m carrying either,

Then a deaf crowd I won’t hold.

My voice will be a violin,

Played with a block of cheese,

And my ankles will be but fromage frais,

Spread all over my knees.

My guitar will be a panda,

Who is listening to to Stephen Fry,

Reading a pleasant audiobook,

But alongside a fox’s cry.

Pianos become a world of pain,

When dropped a top a cold,

As everyone who touches it,

Gives the germs their hand to hold.

It’s Saturday night,

And I’ve seen the light,

Although I’d like to go out,

I’d better stay in,

And practise to sing,

Of that I have no doubt.

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