In the Tower of London, large as life, The ghost of Anne Boleyn walks, they declare. For Anne Boleyn was once King Henry's wife, Until he had the headsman bob her hair. Oh, yes, he did her wrong long years ago, And she comes back at night to tell him so.
Chorus: With her 'ead tucked underneath her arm, She walks the bloody Tower, With her head tucked underneath her arm, At the midnight hour.
She comes to haunt King Henry, she means giving him what-for Gadzooks, she's going to tell him off, for spilling of her gore. And just in case the headsman wants to give her encore, She has her head tucked underneath her arm. Now sometimes gay King Henry gives a spread, For all his pals and gals, a ghastly crew, The 'eadsman carve the joint and cuts the bread, When in comes Anne Boleyn to queer the do. She holds her head up with a wild war whoop, And Henry cries, "don't drop it in the soup!"
She walks the endless corridors, for miles and miles she goes, She often catches cold, poor dear, it's drafty when it blows, And it's awfully, awfully awkward for the queen to blow her nose, With her head tucked underneath her arm.
The sentries think that it's a football that she carries in, And when they've had a few they shout, "Is Army going to win?" They think that it's Red Grange instead of poor old Anne Boleyn With her head tucked underneath her arm. One night she caught King Henry, he was in the canteen bar, He said, "Are you Jane Seymour, Anne Boleyn, or Catherine Parr? Well, how are? With your head tucked underneath your arm?
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