Monday, 28 December 2015

Wilbur The Ancient

By popular demand (well, at the request of my fellow warped Word Nerd Robert Mackey), I have been asked to write a new version of that seasonal favourite "Frosty the Snowman" featuring one of the minor characters from my recent Christmas parody "Cruel Yule". 

So, with apologies to the writers of "Frosty the Snowman", as well as their families, and for the cheesy rhymes and dubious taste, I give you:


Wilbur the Ancient was an aged sack of farts,
but when he told his tales, he would never fail,
to capture other elvish hearts.

Wilbur the Ancient, can’t recall when he was born.
But when he scratched his balls among the reindeer stalls,
he remembered he liked porn.

There must have been some magic in that old cracked chamber pot,
for when he took a shit, his face was lit
with relief that hit the spot!

Oh, Wilbur the Ancient had no clue what’s going on;
though Elvis flew the coop, with a joyous whoop,
he kept up the elvish con.

Trumpety, trump, trump, trumpety, trump, trump,
listen to Wilbur fart.
Trumpety trump, trump, trumpety trump, trump,
he’s just about to start.

Wilbur the Ancient, was fit for the funny farm.
Now Klaus is back, but Wlbur’s mind has cracked,
so he’s locked up in the barn.

There must have been some acid in his late night cocoa mug,
for when he woke, he no longer spoke,
he just barked like a prize pug.

A howlin’ at the moon one night, Wilbur took some time to think,
why he’d never died, had the Elders lied?
God, he wished he had a drink.

See, Wilbur the Ancient was a zombie through and through,
with a thirst for brains, even when in chains,
together with his ghastly crew.

Slumpety, slump, slump, slumpety, trump, trump,
hear his coffin call.
Slumpety, slump, slump, slumpety, slump, slump,
into his grave he falls.

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