There was an old rabbit from Gloster
Who claimed Bugs Bunny an impostor
If you said “What’s up doc”
He replied “Quite a lot”
And got in a terrible fluster.
There was an old man who alack
Had a terrible pain in his back
If he stood up straight
He could scarce stand the ache
So he stood sitting down , quite a knack.
A little old man from St.Bee
Thought he would bur a p.c
All smart people should
Realise such a dud
Is no where as good as Atari
There was a young rabbit from Bunny
Who liked to dip bread in his honey
His poor old mamar
Said “There’s crumbs in the jar
And personally I don’t find that funny”.
Tennis is a game played in the head
That’s what the commentator said
Whether you win or you lose
Depends upon the shot you choose
And the state of mind from which the will is fed.
It is farther to Java than I first thought
Farther by far than I would walk.
Clara Wieck married a drunken composer
Clara Schumann buried him sober.
I know a girl who lives in Hope, of what she will not say
And yet I know it is but this, that I will go away.
Firstly our thirsty Kirsty curtsies to the queen
Cuts the cake complete with cream and keeps the cutlery clean.
Could two hundred thousand different types of moths
Conspire to take my weighted mind aloft.
Can’t remember if it’s spelt with a K or a C
But I know they’ve shortened it from Katherine to catie.
If I was half as stupid as I am
You would not call me a clever man
If I was twice as bright and twice as quick
You still would have to call me thick.
I want to be clever as smart as I can
But I have to accept I’m as dumb as I am
I’ll never make Mensa I’m just far too slow
And Kings college Cambridge is too far to go.
Beware my friend of those who sell you certainty
Doubt their confident conviction
When they spell out the truth remember
Fact is the mispelt abbreviation of fiction.
He’s fatter than the lot of us
As fat as a hippopotamus
In fact it’s quite preposterous
He flattens every one he does.
If I might have a little word
I’ll tell you something that I heard
That a zygodactyl is a bird
That leaves a foot print quite absurd.
Up the great north road as far as Scotch Corner
Then straight on up Deer street to Carter Bar and the border
But the adventure begins past the Clyde and the Forth
For a three week holiday in the rain sodden north.
We stand round the altar of Bell Fruit
And offer in utterance our prayer
With hope in our eyes we make our sacrifice
To see if the God of good fortune dwells there.
We all stand around Bell Fruits nightsafe
Make our deposits and curse
And if anyone wins, it goes straight back in
For if losing is pain winning’s worse.
When my little girl was three she used to sit upon my knee
Now my little girl is four she will not sit still any more
Twelve months will very shortly go my little girl is sure to know
That she five years old will be, will she then sit upon my knee?
And now here is a sports report; England have just lost at cricket
Bowled out for little more than nought, while batting on a tricky wicket
Although it has to be admit, the opposition seemed to like it
Five hundred for one off fifty overs, top score by an aunt of Gary Sobers.
I really don’t want to go jogging
I’m just doing it to get fit
But it really won’t help while I lie in bed
Dreading the prospect of it.
Edmund Pickle, ate a stickle, back
Gave his mum an heart attack
Cos doctor told her, when he’s older
He’ll av a stickle for his shoulder.
I know a girl who has a puppy
she calls him George which is quite lucky
for his name IS George you see
to call him Rex would be quite silly
The drawing of the curtain
Makes the darkness much more certain
So it feels no need to creep
But rushes wildly to the street.
Khataturian the famous russian composer
Had an aunt in Nova Scotia
I’ve an aunt in Ingoldmells
Perhaps that’s why my music smells.
I once saw what I thought I saw
That is I’m sure I saw you all before
Though there could have been more
for I would of swore
that where were five are now but four
I don’t much care for D.H.Lawrence
I find his language quite an abhorrence
His language is far too artificial
It makes me vomit in the twitchel.
The three toed tree toad, told the four toed tree toad
He treated the three tree treaties of the tree toads seriously.
But the four toed tree toad vetoed the three tree treaties
of the three toed tree toad saying “ truth told
the three toed tree toads three tree treaties are silly “.
My brother travelled down to Leicester
On his motor scooter Vespa
Each time a lorry overtook
The little motor scooter shook
Gripping tightly to the bars
Amidst a sea of angry cars
All to see his O.U tutor
He rode a Vespa motor scooter.
The farmer stopped his tractor, got out and then whacked her,
“I’ve told you twice before, that’s a dangerous place for,
The little girl began to sob, and then she turned to wander off,
The farmer who had been concerned, that of the danger she should learn,
gently calls her back again, “promise to be good and then
you can sit upon my knee, and in my tractor steer as we,
Sit on my knee and listen Amanda
If girls where cars you’d be a Fiat Panda
That or a Skoda or even a Lada
From my dreams of Brooklands you could not be farther.
The thundering noise and the steep banked bends
The gentlemen racers, and their racy lady friends
Well I dare say you’d say I’m a second rate driver
Unworthy of taxing your Lady Godiva
But I’ll make you an offer, if you’ll be my Bentley
I’ll do my best to be your Count Zoborski.
If I ever find myself
in the belly of a whale
I’ll think of you and your pie and chips
and your gallon of pale ale
And if I find myself in a cavernous cave
in the heart of an old mountain
I’ll imagine myself as a steak that’s stuck
in the bilious pit of your bulbous gut
and I’ll climb back out again.
I turned north when I should of gone south
East when I should of gone west
I clouded the issue by listening to you
When all along I knew best.
I went up when I should of gone down
Stayed out when I should of come in
Took too long to see you were wrong<
And I was right about everything.
This is a tale on a grand and epic scale
Of racy Tracy, a waif like nymph
who lived in a hamlet on an island in an inlet.
Where the river Rother ran from the hills where it began
Down into the Don, and on, until it’s waters went
Into the Trent, whos’ bent and twisting course
Flows gently to the north
Until the Ouse will refuse for pride to cede it’s name
And for shame in a blunder of a compromise
They flow on as the Humber
and out into the North sea many miles from our Tracy.
Here is a rotund scoundrel with beer in his belly
He sits amid the wreck of his brothers table (whos’ farts are very smelly)
What ill conceived and rotten plan convinced him that he could
Drop from such a height and not smash the sturdy wood
A less substantial man perhaps would not cause the collapse
And one with a clearer brain would not succumb to such a lapse
But some strange mix of alcohol and the want of his boisterous youth
Set his mind in motion away from the painful truth
So with exaggerated exuberance and the carefreeness of a drink
he stood on the wall at the side of us all as though he was stood on the
and the patio table was cleared and the fine fat fellow was cheered
as he jumped in the air without a care and the end of the table neared
now his feet went out flying before him and he came down hard on his rump
the whole earth shook it had never took, such a blow such a whack such a
now he sits amid the wreck of the table and laughter rents the reeking air
among the splintered remains he ruefully proclaims “I’ve a bruise on my
As I was travelling to St. Ives
I met a man with bright steely knives
Preparing to cook his seven fat wives
By boiling them in oil alive.
“Oh no”, I cried “not by my eyes
can I allow you to boil these women alive.
First you must cut them into pieces of five”
And indeed he had done so when the constabulary arrived.
They took him to dungeons in darkest St. Ives
Till the magistrate came to hear the case tried
When the wondrous defence lawyer got up and lied
Saying how “quite out of character was this act derived”.
So they sent him to prison from half four till five
While a small boy up for stealing chopped chives
Was hung drawn and quartered, and ordered deported
Without prejudice or malice to pauper or marquis
Such is the nature of British justice.
Apples are not a fruit I eat for pleasure
But rather for knowledge of that dark past
That presses itself into my conscious thought
And proves how long a casual whim can last.
Long a go before3 my original sin
Some fool has said it, and it remains
A prophecy to tempt fools to their doom-
-an apple a day keeps doctors from lawful gain.
Dear Beshlie Alice Cooke
Your present is late because it took
Fifteen men with limps in lorries
Fourteen months to traverse thirteen miles of tundra
Twelve high mountains, eleven over the other under
A ten mile tunnel dimly lit with nine volt lights
Eight hours they travelled that weary night
Rising at seven they set off again
Across six different deserts and a five acre fen
Four ferry journeys and three flights through the air
Two bring you one present .... ...Beshlie I am sorry.
Dear Beshlie Alice Cooke
Your present is late because it took
Ages and ages provoking my muse
To try and think of an excuse.
John Browns’ body lies a mouldering in the grave
The heart has stopped the guts will rot the fleshy parts degrade
Internal organs decompose with eyes and ears and nose
As worms go marching on.
Gory, gory worms will eat you, Gory, gory worms will eat you
Gory, gory worms will eat you and turn you into wormey poo.
My eldest niece is sniffing glue
What a silly thing to do
The trachea is already sticky enough
Without inhaling that kind of stuff
Forget the solvent skip the drugs
Stick to eating lovely slugs.
If Milligan were alive today
and read this rhyme what would he say
if while alive this rhyme he read
I wonder what he would of said.
“But I’m not dead” he might well claim
I say that this excuse is lame
Everybody dies someday
If you were dead what would you say.
The great man rises bows and farts
“stick that up your royal arse”
irreverent until the last
is that how the great man past?
Or did his ancient face look up
to see the reaper close afoot
“It’s time to go” the reaper says
“Then bloody go and let me stay”.
Was there some last genius stroke
Some pith, a pun, some maverick joke
Before the light so deftly fled
Was humour hung round the death bed?
And when perhaps as if it would
His spirit rose up from the cold blood
Did it see the body that they’d bury
And fully blow a raspberry.
And when the Christ absolved his sins
And bid saint Peter welcome him
And ordered heavens trumpets blasted
Did he call him grovelling little bastard.