The Scarlet Pimpernel

love me! Such conjecturing could drive a man insane
And I’m the one to set this gossip quite to rest
The Pimpernel is me Indeed! And I’m the Queen of Spain!
The Pimpernel is nothing but a nosy pest
No, the vicar says the Pimpernel’s a bishop in disguise
Who gives absolution night and day
Stuff and nonsense, don’t you know
He’s a maharajah from Bombay?
They say he has enormous feet
And that he tends to overeat
I’ve heard he’s fussy with his food
And eats his breakfast in the nude
Is he robust? Or very pale?
At least we know he’s male!
Who is the Scarlet Pimpernel?
Me sister says his breath is sweeter than an Irish rose
I’m sure I’d fall in love if he would cross my path
La, yes, if you could overlook the warts upon his nose
And possibly persuade him he should take a bath
Rumour has it he’s Castillian
He’s a reckless buccaneer
And I hear he carries several whips
He’s a sultan from Kabul
with women at his fingertips
They say he’s nearly eight feet tall
And yet quite graceful… all in all
I’m told he waddles when he walks
And often twitches when he talks
Is he a dolt? He’s very deep!
Oh, England’s losing sleep!
Who is the Scarlet Pimpernel?
The butcher in the village claims he saw the man last week
Galloping his camel cross the moor
He’s been seen
Wearing full Blakeney green
I’ve told you all before
The fellow’s me It’s George the Third
Perhaps a convict run amok
This Pimpernel could be most any sod
Bite your tongue, he is dashing and young
The Pimpernel’s a god
And he’ll find me, and he’ll wake me, and he’ll take me Down on a haystack
He’ll face me Then at last you could tell
If he’s a hero or a monk, a fiddling Nero or a drunk
Who is the Scarlet Pimpernel?
I’m sure he’s flatulant and crass
Here, here, the man’s a horse’s ass
No, no, he’s neighbourly and kind
But quite erotically inclined
Whatever guise he may employ,
He’s England’s pride and joy
This plucky non-pareil
This lucky, bloody swell
Who is the Scarlet Pimpernel?