Once have we bashed him on the head;
Twice have we stabbed him deep;
Thrice have we left him there for dead
And yet he will not sleep;
But rise up from out his grave
To gibber and repine
And generally misbehave
By raving as lost spirits rave:
'Oh, Body-Bodyline!'

We've sneaked on him at dead of night
And bashed his grinning face
And flung him down and rammed him tight
Into his resting place.
We've tied a weight about his neck
And cast him to the brine;
But, lo, next day, he's back on deck,
Like some damp victim of a wreck,
To babble, 'Bodyline!'

We've exorcised him with due rite
Of candle, book and bell;
But back he toddled in the night
His sad tale to re-tell.
His grizly mien, when he appears,
Sends shivers down our spine
And wakes our superstitious fears
What time he blubbers thro' his tears,
'Pity poor Bodyline!'

Alas! he can not die, poor bloke,
And cease from haunting us
Les England, with a single stroke,
Gives him his quietus.
Then at the bleak crossroads shall we,
When ne'er a moon doth shine,
Inter his bones triumphantly
And write above, with savage glee:
'Hic jacet Bodyline.'