Written by
Vernon Scannell |
He killed his wife at night.
He had tried once or twice in the daylight
But she refused to die.
In darkness the deed was done,
Not crudely with a hammer-hard gun
Or strangler's black kid gloves on.
She just ceased being alive,
Not there to interfere or connive,
Linger, leave or arrive.
It seemed almost as though
Her death was quite normal and no
Clue to his part would show.
So then, with impunity,
He called up that buttocky beauty
He had so long longed to see
All covering gone: the double
Joggle of warm weighty bubbles
Was sweet delirious trouble.
And all night, all night he enjoyed her;
Such sport in her smooth dimpled water;
Then daylight came like a warder.
And he rose and went down to the larder
Where the mouse-trap again had caught a
Piece of stale gorgonzola.
His wife wore her large woollen feet.
She said that he was late
And asked what he wanted to eat,
But said nothing about the murder---
And who, after all, could have told her?
He said that he fancied a kipper.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
When your marrer bone seems 'oller,
And you're glad you ain't no taller,
And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills;
When your skin creeps like a pullet's,
And you're duckin' all the bullets,
And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills;
When your legs seem made of jelly,
And you're squeamish in the belly,
And you want to turn about and do a bunk:
For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it!
Don't let your mateys know it --
You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk.
Of course there's no denyin'
That it ain't so easy tryin'
To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,
When the 'ole world rips asunder,
And you sees yer pal go under,
As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut;
I admit it's 'ard contrivin'
When you 'ears the shells arrivin',
To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' *****;
But, my lad, you've got to do it,
And your God will see you through it,
For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk.
So stand up, son; look gritty,
And just 'um a lively ditty,
And only be afraid to be afraid;
Just 'old yer rifle steady,
And 'ave yer bay'nit ready,
For that's the way good soldier-men is made.
And if you 'as to die,
As it sometimes 'appens, why,
Far better die a 'ero than a skunk;
A-doin' of yer bit,
And so -- to 'ell with it,
There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk.
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