[Intro: Plucked cello, intimate spoken tenor] My lady. I believe you dropped your glove. Beside the mustard. [Verse 1: Breathy tenor, restrained groove] They announced the Duke of Something; I arrived upon a plate. With a pedigree of pork, dear, And a footman at the gate. You were bored by all the princes, By their acres and their art. Then you reached across the table— Put your mustard on my heart. [Pre-Chorus: Strings rising, close harmonies] Now your mother shuts her fan. “Find yourself a proper man.” But your fingers brush my bun. Tell me I’m the only one. [Chorus: Lush strings, sensual and sincere] I’m a most improper sausage With a very proper heart. You can strip me of my title; You can tear my bun apart. But don’t leave me on the platter While you dance with someone new. I’m a most improper sausage, And I’m quite undone by you. (By you) (Quite undone) [Verse 2: Warm electric piano, playful phrasing] Lady Whistledown is printing What occurred beside the bread: “An attachment to a sausage— Has the girl quite lost her head?” Now the suitors call me common. I was priced at half a crown. But you slipped me in your carriage As the rain began to pound. [Pre-Chorus: Sparse bass, breath close to the mic] Let them gossip. Let them stare. There’s a pickle in your hair. You can blame the cook at dawn. Keep the carriage curtains drawn. [Chorus: Richer harmonies, steady groove] I’m a most improper sausage With a very proper heart. You can strip me of my title; You can tear my bun apart. But don’t leave me on the platter While you dance with someone new. I’m a most improper sausage, And I’m quite undone by you. (By you) (Quite undone) [Bridge: Drums fall away, intimate tenor] I have neither land nor horses, Not a penny to my name. Just a little twist of paper From the butcher where I came. You removed your satin ribbon, Tied it gently round my waist. “Let them say I married poorly. They can’t say I have no taste.” [Final Chorus: Sweeping strings, tender conviction] I’m a most improper sausage With a very proper heart. You can strip me of my title; You can tear my bun apart. Now your place is set beside me; Let them choke upon the view. I’m a most improper sausage, And I’m quite undone by you. (By you) (Quite undone) [Outro: Solo cello, softly spoken] Your Grace? A little more relish.
