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.
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