The Tale of Dick's Turbin

Eyes glib from tree and nominous tree Go barking with intent. To foe itself in one-two-three And leaphing as it went. In black from shadow nail to nut Bad rifle cock in hand. Dick’s Turbin angry as a foot Suspecting cross the land. In ukulele’s uniform A unicycle too. Bi-dykles round the Matterhorn With mouldy Irish Stu. From vileduct out to craggy glen Fat Andy takes his bird. And crapping ever by hissen A trumping sound is heard. Gruff rozzers with their monty hunt Watch ever closetful look. And seeching on a Quakers front Play handclap with a hook. Through curlfew bends and spiteful leads Half etched upon their heads Mock heed within their harristweeds Whilst plotting from a shed. Go bootle up your bottlenose You onion bread – you scab! There’s nothing like a good repose Two inches at a stab. And if, in some unlucky pose A match should strike its head. We’ll light a Camel by its toes And hump it on some bread.