by Anonymous Parody on 'The Picture Turned Towards The Wall' She used to sing hymns in the old village choir She taught at the Sunday-school class, At playing the organ she never would tire Those dear days are over, alas. In church at the organ she'd practice each day While the minister pumped up and down. His wife caught him pumping the organ one day And that's why aunt Clara left town. With presents he tempted and lured her to sin Her innocent virtue to smirch, But her honour was strong and she never gave in Till he gave her the deed to the church. Chorus: We never mention aunt Clara; Her picture is turned to the wall. Though she lives on the French Riviera Mother says she is dead to us all. They said that she'd toil by night and by day She'd have to scrub floors for her bread, But inside of a week she discovered a way To earn her board lying in bed. They told her the wages of sinners was death. To this my aunt Clara just said That she'd just as soon die with champagne on her breath, And pink satin sheets on her bed. They said no one cared if she'd ever come back When she left us her fortune to seek But the boys in the firehouse painted it black And the ball team wore mourning that week. They said that no man would make her his bride They prophesied children of shame But she's married three earls and a baron besides And she hasn't a child to her name. They said that Hellfire would punish her sin She'd burn for her carryings-on But just at the moment she's toasting her skin On the beaches of Deauville and Cannes. They said that to garments of sackcloth she'd sink With ashes to cover her head. But just at the moment it's ermine and mink And a diamond tiara instead. They say that she's sunk in the muck and the mud But the papers last week showed a snap Of aunt Clara, at Nice, with a prince of the blood And a bishop asleep on her lap. The best things in life always go to the pure The Sunday school lessons all teach But I wonder when I see the rotogravure Of her eighty room shack at the beach. They say that she's sunken, they say that she fell From the narrow and virtuous path, But her French formal gardens are sunken as well And so is her pink marble bath. My poor mother's life has been pious and meek She drives in a second-hand Ford. Aunt Clara received, for her birthday, last week A Rolls-Royce, a Stutz and a Cord. My mother does all of her housework alone She has to scrub clothes for her board It strikes me that virtue's not only its own, But also its only reward. Chorus: So we never mention aunt Clara, But I think that when I grow up tall I shall live on the French Riviera And let mother turn me to the wall.
The end