They'll be coming through the forest when they come
Calling on the Florist

Chorus
I will if you will, so will I
Those damm squeaky elves, have got to die
So we'll bash them and we'll stomp them
We'll mash them and we'll chomp them
We'll turn the little buggers into pie.

They'll be using silly voices when they come
Death I think their choice is

We'll chop them into peices when they come
And feed them to the meeces

They'll be wearing babies nappies when they come
And crying for their pappies

We'll stick them on some skewers when they come
And throw them in the sewers

We'll all get back to normal when they've gone
With celebrations formal


They'll Be Coming