We Never Mention Aunt Clara
She used to sing hymns in the old village choir
She taught at the Sunday school class
At playing the organ she never would tire
D A D
Those dear days are over, alas
We never mention aunt Clara
Her picture is turned to the wall.
Though she lives on the French Riviera
Mother says she is dead to us all.
In church at the organ she'd practice each day
While the minister pumped up and down.
His wife caught him pumping the organ one day
And that's why aunt Clara left town.
With presents he tempted and lured her to sin
Her innocent virtue to smirch,
But her honor was strong and she never gave in
Till he gave her the deed to the church.
They said that she'd toil by night and by day
She'd have to scrub floors for her bread,
But inside of a week she discovered a way
To earn her board lying in bed.
They told her the wages of sinners was death.
To this my aunt Clara just said
That she'd just as soon die with champagne on her breath,
And pink satin sheets on her bed.
They said that to garments of sackcloth she'd sink
With ashes to cover her head.
But just at the moment it's ermine and mink
And a diamond tiara instead.
They say that she's sunken, they say that she fell
From the narrow and virtuous path,
But her French formal gardens are sunken as well
And so is her pink marble bath.
My mother does all of her housework alone
She has to scrub clothes for her board
It strikes me that virtue's not only its own,
But also its only reward.
So we never mention aunt Clara,
But I think that when I grow up tall
I shall live on the French Riviera
And let mother turn me to the wall.