(with apologies to James Pierpont)

Rummaging through slush

On a one-track broken sleigh,

Making bad boys blush

In a most revealing way;

With each hobnail hand

Sorting wrong from right,

I understand that it's been planned

To keep me out of sight:

Filkin Bells, Filkin Bells,

Filkin's on her way!

Pushed aside 'cos she's the Bride

Of Frankenstein, they say!

A year or three ago

I undertook a check,

And pretty soon I had a horde

Of members at my neck;

With lawyers taking note

To hob their every nob,

They bit me firmly through the throat

And advertised my job.

Filkin Bells, Filkin Bells . . .

And just the other week,

While hunting through some gorse,

Two speakers had the cheek

To whip away my horse;

They whispered in my ear,

"We do not need a reason",

And offered to me half a cheer

For a most unfestive season.

Filkin Bells, Filkin Bells . . .

So now the wash is white,

And linen crisp and nice,

Sing this song tonight

While skating on thin ice:

When members make a stink

And call a special silk in,

Watch out for pools of sleaze, and think

Of poor old Lizzie Filkin!

Filkin Bells, Filkin Bells . . .

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