Pillowman from Teatime Terrors by Monsieur Pompier's Travelling Freakshow

There was an old man on our road
Who hated children
Preferred the weather nice and cold
To keep the chill in
He smokes one hundred fags a day
And more on weekends
He never gave us back our ball
We asked him nicely
Laughed when our friends would have a fall
On streets so icy
He'd poke the children with his cane
And trip them over
His face was marked with bumps and boils
He dined on liver
He couldn't stand the sight of smiles
They gave him shivers
But meanwhile I planned my revenge
The mean old miser
Was none the wise
I'd make him nicer!

And so I studied alchemy as I grew older
I slipped something into his tea
When I felt bolder
And slow he began to change into a softy

At first he noticed that his fists
Had turned to pillows
All soft and fluffy 'round the wrists
When once like brillos
And then it went straight to his head
He called a Doctor,
A cure concocter,
It really shocked her...

he started feeling chesty pains
And coughing feathers
He could not quite remove the stains
Around the leather
The fags had finally took their toll
On poor old Pillow

Now all the children come to play
And sit on his head
Made up one hundred thousand games
Around his deathbed
He thought that maybe he was wrong
For always shushing
And always rushing
For poke and pushing
For football crushing
Now he's a cushion
Who's lost his stuffing
He'll soon be nothing!

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