It's a scream, it wouldn't seem you could dream such perfect ch-e-arm;
You can bet that Jazz'll be beat to a frazzle,
And the old Fox Trot'll be a pale green mottle,
When they gauge what's the rage of the age at the Sausage Farm.
(CRASH! BANG! TINKLE!)
Come along, you'll be wrong if you miss that Sausage Roll.
Every pig does the jig, for he's in this heart and so-ul:
See the old sow shout, "What about my litter?"
But she dries those tears when she hears, poor crittur,
That they're all at the Ball in the Soss-Soss-Sausage Roll.