Long ago in a far off place,
there lived a girl called Emma Grace,
her family tree she'd tried to trace
and drew a blank.
Friends were few and far between
without a male upon the scene,
oh how could life be so mean?
Her spirits sank.
She thought she'd advertise the fact.
She needed a mate with lots of tact,
then with him she'd make a pact.
He'd take her for his wife.
At last she hooked the very man
and happy with her perfect plan,
down the aisle together ran.
His for life.
The vicar looked at them with glee,
this was his first ce-rem-on-y,
as he continued ner-vous-ly,
‘Or forever hold your peace’
A voice spoke up from the back.
A ladies voice in a green mac,
"He can't get wed, his wife's come back".
It was his favourite niece.
So here ends this sad, sad tale
of Emma Grace at the alter, pale
and Jimmy Royde, who leaped the rail
running ever since.
The vicar took her by the arm,
she succumbed to his charm,
now they run a maggot farm,
it's enough to make you wince.
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