What I remember from my English childhood.
Twas Christmas Eve in the workhouse,
the happiest night of the year.
Men's hearts were full of gladness
and their bellies full of beer.
In walked the workhouse master,
strolling throught the halls.
To wish them a Merry Christmas when
one old bugger shouts BALLS.
This vexed the workhouse master
who swore by all the gods.
You shall have no Christmas pudding
you dirty rotten sods.
Up spake a man from Wigan,
his voice as bold as brass.
We don't want your Christmas pudding.
You can stick it up your arse.