It wasn't my fault, It was three hours long - My stomach felt needed, And broke out in song.
As the soprano was quavering, All I could think of was crisps, And when the bass started booming, My mind turned to fish.
I was ever so hungry, So my stomach did growl, No, not sotto at all, More a scream or a howl.
It cried like the death-scene, In Don Giovanni, But the fire and brimstone, Was for a good bacon sarnie.
All the audience turned, When it heckled the chorus. A good thing it was dark, Or they might all have saw us!
I prayed for the interval, With pleas like Hagith, But my thoughts went astray, To peas and haggis.
So loud indeed, When it made it's debut, My trecherous tummy, Hitting all notes on cue.
It went the full octave, Even managed top C! The critics made notes, Oh, miserable me.
Finally, it ended, With half the characters dead, How I wish it was my stomach, Barnaba throttled instead.
Should've made credits, As percussion, a drum - But perhaps I was lucky, For it wasn't my bum.