We three kings of Orient are With these gifts we have come from afar Myrrh, frankincense, gold For we have foretold By the light of yon wandering star.
This is all getting too nice. So - I practise all day on trombone My neighbour does nothing but moan But were I Glenn Miller I'd go round and kill 'er 'Cos the dopey old bat's on her own.My neighbours are actually very nice.
My neighbour's a lousy tromboner He thinks that I'm just an old moaner His playing I'd pardon Were he Jack Teagarden Instead of a bitter old loner I don't live next to Rosie, and my neighbours are also very nice, and don't play the trombone.
To my right there's a lousy tromboner To my left, a trumpeting moaner I'm stuck in the middle With the old plywood fiddle flerdle sold me for forty five Krona
I also practise the piano Which is made from string and Meccanoshort "a" 'Twould not be ungallant To say that my talent Ain't mini or micro; it's nano.
That blasted tromboner's now tinklin' A piano. That bugger's no inklin' He's a Les Dawson bum When he's not George Chisholme As for me my ear drums are a-wrinklin'I hasten to add all persons referred to in this limerick are fictitious and that any resemblance to persons living, dead or undecided is a most unfortunate coincidence. Besides, my tromboning pianist doesn't know anything about meteorology or chemistry. He's an insurance salesman and he lives in Chipping Sodbury.