Poor old Father Popplethwaite,
overworked and underweight,
toured his Parish daily, like…
on his penny farthing bike.
Preaching here and preaching there,
preaching bloomin’ EVERYWHERE!
Shouting from his saddle high
that the Judgement Day was nigh.
Did not see the village lake,
penny farthings have no brakes.
People tried but got there late…
poor old Father Popplethwaite.
Poor old father Popplethwaite
standing there at Heaven’s gate,
tangled up with bits of bike…
from his mouth there hangs a Pike.
He is dazed and he’s confused,
Peter has some real bad news.
“You tried much too hard,” he claims,
“gave the church a real bad name.
You turned many folk away…
now for that sir you must pay.
Not for YOU the Pearly Gates…”
poor old Father Popplethwaite.
Poor old Father Popplethwaite,
he is in a right old state.
He thought he had been so good,
bible punching like he should.
He still has his rusty steed,
cycles round at no great speed.
On a bike that has no seat
in the burning Hades heat.
Preaching here and preaching there
preaching blinkin’ everywhere!
Even though that sealed his fate…
poor old Father Popplethwaite.
