Hand Grown In Thyme

Hand Grown In Thyme. On Brummie Sea and Burnley oak, In bearded wood and clove I hidey in this Mutton cloth That strangles like a choke. Lampooned upon this Ferris wheel, A chuckle for a hoot. I swung with empty boxing glove And knocked a joke aboot. I thank you from my Uncles chin And dear old Auntie Pat Who did asunder to a sin And dogged her pussycat! They trundled stubborn as a toe And caring not a care Sent humphing parties to and fro Though knew not who they were. ‘Bejees!’ I crippled all a goat What finery I’ve found, Four friends in foursome charging free- A bargain at a pound. ‘Well fancy that,’ a woman sat, And bending like a river Weaved not a spell but nasty smell And sent me all a quiver. ‘How come you like to gape alewd?’ I asked but half an inch. To which the Lady took a fence And hit me with a pinch.