Four and Twenty Virgins

Four and twenty virgins
Came down from Inverness
And when the ball was over
There were four and twenty less

Singing......
Balls to your Father
Arse against the wall
If you've never been shagged
On a Saturday night
You've never been shagged at all!

Four and twenty prostitutes
Came up from Glockamore
And when the ball was over
They were all of them double bore

The bride was in the kitchen
Explaining to the groom
That the vagina, not the rectum
Is the entrance to the womb

The village plumber, he was there
He felt an awful fool
He'd come a hundred miles or more
And forgotten to bring his tool

The village smithy, he was there
His balls were made of brass
And when he walked, they clanged
And the sparks went up his ass

The blacksmith's brother, he was there
A mighty man was he
He lined them up against the wall
And f**ked them three by three

The village idiot, he was there
Sitting on a pole
He pulled his foreskin over his head
And whistled through the hole

The village doctor, he was there
Sitting by the fire
Doing abortions by the score
With a piece of red hot wire

The village cripple, he was there
Leaning on the gate
Teaching all the little boys
How to masturbate

The vicar's daughter, she was there
The cunning little runt
With poison ivy up her arse
And a thistle up her c**t

The vicar's wife, she was there
Back against the wall
"Put your money on the table boys
I'm fit to do you all!!"

Now Farmer Giles, he was there
His sickle in his hand
And every time he swung around
He circumcised the band

Father O'Flannagan, he was there
And in the corner he sat
Amusing himself by abusing himself
And catching it in his hat

The village builder, he was there
He brought his bag of tricks
He poured cement in all the holes
And blunted all the pricks

Little Jimmy, he was there
The Leader of the choir
He hit the balls of all the boys
To make them sing much higher

Now little Tommy, he was there
But he was only eight
He couldn't shag the women
So he had to masturbate

The village postie, he was there
The poor man had the pox
He couldn't shag the lassies
So he porked the letterbox

And when the ball was over
Everyone confessed
They all enjoyed the dancing
But the f**king was the best