♪♪♪♪The doctor's intellectual wife sat under the Ilex tree.The cathedral bells pealed over the wall, but never a bell heard she.And the sun played shadow graphs on her book, which was writ by A. Huxley.Once those bells, those Exeter bells, called her to praise and prayby pink acacia-shaded walls, several times a day,to wolf-ricks, altar, and riddle posts, while the choir sang Stanford in A.♪♪The doctor jumps in his Morris car. The surgery door goes bang.Clash and whir down Colleton Crescent. Other cars all go hang.My little bus is enough for us, till a tram car bell went clang.♪♪They brought him in by the big front door, and a smiling corpse was he.On the dining room table they laid him out, where the bystanders used to be.The tattler, the sketch, and the bystander for the cannon's wives to see.Now those bells, those Exeter bells, call her to praise and prayby pink acacia-shaded walls, several times a day,to wolf-ricks, altar, and riddle posts, while the choir sang Stanford in A.♪♪♪♪