Attila was very misunderstood,
History suggests that he was no good,
One simple ambition, he just couldn't cure it,
To ravage and devastate Central Europe:
Burning and looting and rampaging through,
As little Hun boys were expected to do.

Those were the days, the records recall,
Frolicking through Germania and Gaul,
Roman envoys, he'd skin 'em alive,
but he always quit work at a quarter past five,
And in the evenings Attila was free,
A slipper-clad "Wheel of Fortune" devotee

Long summer evenings were often spent,
doing embroidery inside his tent;
He would vile away long winter hours,
with basketwork, or pressing wild flowers;
he hired a tutor to learn elocution,
he did watercolours of mass executions.

Demure of manner and dapper of dress,
Attila was slurred by the liberal press,
The victim of a smear campaign,
They said he lost at the Mauriac Plain;
But it was a draw, believe what you hear,
Or you might end up with your head on a spear,
A tactical draw, believe what you like
but you might wind up with your head on a spike

Oh, but 'is table manners were bee-ootiful ---