We go running around with our angel wings on
And our wee naked butts in the air
“We are angels!” we yell, and we hoot and we hop
And the well-dressed aristocrats stare
And they whisper: “What hooligans!
Surely they know that an angel is modest and mild.
Real angels wear dresses and carry a harp
And their hair is well-combed and well-styled.”
“Poo that!” we reply, as we climb up the church
And throw melons and eggs from the top
“Gifts from heaven!” we cry, as we watch the goop land
On the fancy folks’ heads—squish squelch slop.
