| There’ll be plates piled high with deep fried chicken
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| And a mess of possum stew
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| There’ll be tater pie that’s finger lickin'
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| At the Sunday barbecue
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| The paper says the fun commences
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| At exactly half past two
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| Gonna eat so much I’ll lose my senses
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| At the Sunday barbecue
|
| The Sunday barbecue, the Sunday barbecue
|
| Gonna be there when the fun commences
|
| At the Sunday barbecue
|
| There’ll be tug-of-war and cotton candy
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| And a boxin' kangaroo
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| Watermelon pickles soaked in brandy
|
| At the Sunday barbecue
|
| They’ll hear that old brass band a-playin'
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| All the way to Timbuktu
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| Everyone in town’ll be sashayin'
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| To the Sunday barbecue
|
| The Sunday barbecue, the Sunday barbecue
|
| Everyone in town’ll be sashayin'
|
| To the Sunday barbecue
|
| If we wanna do some bill and cooin'
|
| We can twenty three skidoo (skidoo)
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| There’s a lake where we can go canoein'
|
| At the Sunday barbecue (barbecue)
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| We’ll hide behind your red umbrella
|
| If we want a kiss or two (kiss or two)
|
| And they’ll know that I’m your special fella
|
| At the Sunday barbecue
|
| The Sunday barbecue, the Sunday barbecue
|
| Yes, they’ll know that I’m your special fella
|
| At the Sunday barbecue
|
| Yes, they’ll know that I’m your special fella
|
| At the Sunday barbecue |