Now I should like to sing you a new song that I wrote only just last
Year when I was having a holiday on the Island of Capri.
Each evening I used to sit on the piazza and watch these hordes of
Middle-aged ladies ariving by every boat, obviously, all set to have
Themselves a ball, So startled was I by this rather macabre spectacle,
That I wrote this song about a respectable British matron,
Who discovered in the nick of time that life was for living
I'll sing you a song, it's not very long
It's moral may disconcert you
Of a mother and wife who for most of her life
Was famed for domestic virtue
She had two strapping daughters and a rather dull son
And a much duller husband who, at sixty-one
Elected to retire... and later on expire
Sing Halleluhua, heigh-nonny-no
Heigh-nonny-no, heigh-nonny-no
He joined the feathered choir
Having laid him to rest by special request
In the family mausoleum
As his widow repaired to the home they had shared
Her heart sang a gay TeDeum
And then in the middle of the funeral wake
While adding some liquor to the Tipsy Cake
She briskly cried "That's done
My life's at last begun"
Sing Halleluhah, heigh-nonny-no
Heigh-nonny-no, heigh-nonny-no
"It's time I had some fun
Today, though hardly a jolly day
At least has set me free
We'll all have a lovely holiday
On the Island of Capri."
In a bar on the Piccola Marina
Life called to Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster
Fate beckoned her and introduced her
Into a rather queer, unfamiliar atmosphere
She'd just sit there, propping up the bar
Beside a fisherman who sang to a guitar
When accused of having gone too far
She merely cried "Funiculi, just fancy me, funicula"
When he bellowed "Que bella Signorina"
Sheer ecstasy at once produced a wild shriek
From Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster
Changing her whole demeanour
When both her daughters and her son said "Please come home, Mama"
She answered, rather bibulously "Who do you think you are?"
Nobody can afford to be so la-di-bloody-da
In a bar on the Piccola Marina
Every fisherman cried "Viva, viva and que ragazza
When she sat on the grand piazza
Everybody would rise
Every fisherman sighed "Viva, viva, que belle Inglese"
Someone even said "Whoops-a-daisy"
Which was quite a surprise
Each evening, with some light excuse and beaming with goodwill
She'd just slip into something loose and totter down the hill
To that bar on the Piccola Marina
Where love came to Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster
Hot flushes of delight suffused her
Right round the bend she went, picture her astonishment
Day in, day out, she would gad about
Because she felt she was no longer on the shelf
Night out, night in, knocking back the gin
She cried "Hurrah, Funiculi, funicula, funnic-yourself"
Just for fun, three young sailors from Messina
Bowed low to Mrs. Wentworth-Brewster
Said "Scusi", and abruptly goosed her
Then there was quite a scene
Her family in floods of tears cried "Leave these men, Mama"
She said, They, re just high-spirited, like all Italians are"
And most of them have a great deal more to offer than Papa
In a bar on the Piccola Marina