Saint Hollow Leg

Old St. Hollow Leg
The Order of The Imperial Stout
Marches to the pub
Whenever he goes out

His hollow leg filled
Down to his wooden shoe
You can usually find him
Whistling in the loo

He was in World War II
Shot down behind enemy lines
Escaped through fields
Avoiding land mines

He was a cab driver
Working on a book
Said he was a writer
But never had much luck

There's one in every town
Happy Smiling Bard
Offer him a beer
When you see him in the bar

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