Each of the reindeer's a flyer
They pull Santa's sleigh ever higher
But why not a car
If you want to go far?
'Cause a sleigh can't get a flat tire!
There was an old lady whose folly
Induced her to sit upon holly
Whereon, by a thorn
Her dress being torn
She quickly became melancholy.
When you hear the banshee's shrill cry
A person, high-born, will die
A murder, quite often
Is what fills the coffin
Then under the turf he will lie.