Enemy of the Faerye

Those seasick sailors blame it on the rum,
Forty-one women, bathing in the sun,
Don’t man the lifeboat in case you drop the gun,
And it gets discovered by the others.
The preacher dabs at his bloody nose,
And prays that it don’t drip down on his robes,
Sees the sinners but turns his eyes away from those
Who make love on top of the covers.
Don’t rage, don’t stomp your little feet,
Your daddy got pumped then he got beat,
I like my white wine dry and my whiskey neat,
And I’ve got you on the run.
Yeah I’ve got you on the run.
The rain outside don’t bother me none,
‘Cos it’s dry in here and I’m getting it on,
Johanna comes late and by seven she’s gone,
But I’m not too sure where she goes.
And your tinpot trooper is in the sky,
Begging the clouds to be his alibi,
They’re adamant they will but they don’t know why,
But the moon looks smug ‘cos he knows.
Don’t rage, don’t stomp your little feet,
Your daddy got pumped then he got beat,
I like my white wine dry and my whiskey neat,
And I’ve got you on the run.
Yeah I’ve got you on the run.
Don’t ever trust the Pixie Man,
He’ll hold you to ransom whenever he can,
His wings shed moon dust whenever he ran,
But he collects it all up in his quiver.
Well, the Elvin King’s out chopping wood,
He mistimed his swing and shed some blood,
The diagnosis is a shock and his prospects ain’t good,
As his body begins to tremble and shiver.
Don’t rage, don’t stomp your little feet,
Your daddy got pumped then he got beat,
I like my white wine dry and my whiskey neat,
And I’ve got you on the run.
Yeah I’ve got you on the run