Showing posts with label Teddy Bears' Picnic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Teddy Bears' Picnic. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 13, 2024

The Teddy Bears' Picnic




If you go down in the woods today, you're sure of a big surprise 
If you go down in the woods today, you'd better go in disguise 


For every bear that ever there was 
Will gather there for certain because 
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic 


Every teddy bear who's been good is sure of a treat today 
There's lots of marvelous things to eat and wonderful games to play 


Beneath the trees where nobody sees 
They'll hide and seek as long as they please 
That's the way the teddy bears have their picnic 


Picnic time for teddy bears 
The little teddy bears are having a lovely time today 
Watch them, catch them unawares 
And see them picnic on their holiday 


See them gaily gad about 
They love to play and shout 
They never have any cares 


At six o'clock their mummies and daddies 
Will take them back home to bed 
'Cause they're tired little teddy bears


If you go down in the woods today, you'd better not go alone
It's lovely down in the woods today, but safer to stay at home 


For every bear that ever there was 
Will gather there for certain because 
Today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic.


Sunday, October 16, 2011

You'd better go in disguise




Back when I had That Other Blog, in that other lifetime, I tried and tried to find this version of Teddy Bears' Picnic, an excerpt from the superb 1986 British miniseries The Singing Detective. (I've ordered a DVD copy and will probably be commenting on it later.)

But the thing is. . . I wasn't looking for this one at all, not this time. I was looking for the one I stumbled on when looking for this one before.  It was a chorus of what sounded like English people, old hippies with long grey hair and floral crowns and jerkins and that sort of thing (whatever a jerkin is). They sang it delightfully, buoyantly, but I didn't keep the link, or if I did, I'll be damned if I know where it is.

There's a movie version of The Singing Detective, but don't bother with it. The '86 series is pure surrealism. Its hero is a tortured writer of crime novels,  his skin rotting away from psoriatic arthritis (the same soul-rot afflicting my afflicted sister). It has almost been forgotten, but not by me. This little taste will give you. . . a little taste. Now 'scuse me while I hunt for that other one.