I'm not going to do you a cake-walk
I don't think I could If I tried
I'm not going to sing you a coon song
I'd rather commit suicide
I won't sing in praise of old Ireland
Or dwell upon claret or 'fizz'
I've just come to give you a lecture
And the subject of that lecture is this,

Chorus: Bed, bed, beautiful bed
Somewhere to lay your fat head
Flop in it, drop in it, get in it, stop in it
Don't say good-bye to your bed
Always be kind to it, give your whole mind to it
Don't from its comp'ny be led
It's great, there's no doubt of it
Never get out of it, beautiful, beautiful bed.

Now, some people like them of feathers
Some people like them of straw
Some like an eiderdown 'skakedown'
Some like them down on the floor
What odds if you sleep on a clothes line
With the 'Daily Express' for a Sheet
What odds if you sleep on a door-mat?
Or dream pleasant dreams in the street? it's

Chorus: Bed, bed, glorious bed
A 'shakedown' or fancy bedstead
Put your whole soul in it, go up the pole in it
Don't let them rob you of bed
Never be rude to it, get yourself glued to it
Do without 'bacca' or bread
Round the town carry it - worship it- marry it
Lay down your life for your bed.

Now, bed's always been my pet study
I've no time for Latin or Greek
I've gazed on it from all positions
Until my eyesight has gone weak
The missis said to me this morning
'I'm going out to wash for the day
Will you come and help with the manglin'?'
I said, 'No thanks! I'd much rather stay in

Chorus: Bed, bed, heavenly bed
Don't mind if its harder than lead
Eat all your grub in it - fill up your 'tub' in it
Make an hotel of your bed
Roll yourself up in it, like a bull-pup in it
Wear it pulled over your head
The wife may desert you, but don't let it hurt you
So long as she's left you the bed.

If I had a million gold sovereigns
I don't think I'd paint the town red
Instead of me buying you whiskey
I'd treat everyone to a bed
And if, when the King's up at Windsor
He doesn't ask you if you'll call
Don't send him a stiff note about it
But go to the best place of all.

Chorus: Bed, bed, wonderful bed
It sticks to you when all is fled
Ceilings may flop on you, chimney-pots drop on you
For heaven's sake don't leave your bed
Fry in it, freeze in it, get housemaid's knees in it
What will you care when your dead
If they carry you off in a gold mounted coffin
That just holds yourself and your bed!

Written and composed by C.W. Murphy & Dan Lipton - 1915
Performed by Morny Cash (1872-1938)
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