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there once was a wee laddie-o who lived not so very long ago |
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who had a brother with a heart of gold, they soon grew into men |
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the younger had never walked, because of this he never had |
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the brighter view and attitude, curse to live in a wheelie chair |
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days went by, the story goes, they got the gift for making clothes |
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shirts and britches, coats and socks, bluses, kilts and hats and socks |
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one day after closing shop his brother wheeled him for a drop |
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down at the pub when the locals drink, speaking in low tones |
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tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes |
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tailor, tailor, don't believe in things that walk at night |
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well he sat there sipping, mended clothes |
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listening to those who'd never spent the night |
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beside the stone and graves on haunted hill |
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he said "Roll me up, we'll make a bet, i'll spend the night all by myself |
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to prove there ain't no ghosts that haunt the stones on graveyard hill" |
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tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes |
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tailor, tailor, don't believe in things that walk at night |
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believe in things that haunt the moonlight |
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well he sat there in the moonlight, he sat there mending clothes |
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he was shocked to see a big skeleton standing in the graveyard 10 feet tall |
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he tried to kill the tailor, but he glanced him smashing stones |
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he took his flight for his life and walked around for evermore |
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tailor, tailor, all alone in the tavern sewing clothes |
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tailor, tailor, don't believe in things that walk at night |
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believe in things that haunt the moonlight |
