I've got a cat called Basingstoke. he's a cat you must admire. He's black and white, or he was, till the night that he jumped into the fire. What a night! The tale it must be told, So grip your seat, for you're in for a treat that will make your blood run cold. Basingstoke, he used to be so furry Till he tried to kung-fu the canary. Up he jumped, soaring ever higher, Then the soaring stopped and down he dropped in the middle of the fire.
In flames and smoke my Basingstoke went roaring round the room. His fiery tum and his blackened bum appeared to spell his doom. What a cat! Whoever would have guessed He could stick his rear in a pint of beer while beating out his chest? Basingstoke, he truly is a trier. It takes guts to sing when you're on fire. What a cat! You should have seen him strain, Stuck like glue in the bottom of the loo and trying to pull the chain.
Now life's no joke for Basingstoke; so runs the ugly rumour That the fiery hob did not just rob him of his sense of humour. Poor old chap! The prospect it appals. Just one jump and down with a bump and he's burnt off all his undergrowth. Basingstoke, his tale is truly tragic. Fire and smoke, they have robbed him of his magic. The former spring-pawed terror of the tiles Just sits and sighs with tears in his eyes 'cause he only raises smiles.
Basingstoke, he used to be a charmer. Now ladies joke, they talk of fried banana. Poor old chap! He was too young to retire. Once he was happy, handsome and hairy, Just a red-blooded pussy with a taste for canary. Now he comes somewhere between a fritter and a fairy Since he walked the fire.