My Dad the Poet?

The nearest to reciting poetry my lovely old Dad ever came are the three little odes and other odds and sods given below. Be warned, they are filthy, so if filthy offends you, please don’t read on. You have been warned…

Street of the thousand assholes

On the street of a thousand assholes,
‘Neath the sign of the swinging tit,
Stood a beautiful Chinese maiden,
Her name was “Who Flung Shit”.

She stood in celestial splendor,
Her eyes like pools of piss,
As she diddled herself with a candle,
And stood in eternal bliss.

She thought of her friends on Bond Street,
She thought of her friends on Bow,
She thought of the score,
She’d laid on the floor,
When in walked “One Hung Low”.

“Fly into my arms thou bag of shit”,
He said with his cock in hand,
“My love for thee will last like snow,
On the desert sand”.

She gently raised her starboard tit,
And scratched her itchy twat,
Then she said with a half-assed grin,
“Go and fuck your hat”.

Anger overcame him,
As he pissed upon the wall,
Cock in hand he fucked his hat,
And trod on his one good ball.

Now on the street of a thousand assholes,
‘Neath the sign of the pregnant cat,
They bore him away in splendor,
The man who had fucked his hat.

My Dad used to get this wrong, however, and only knew the one verse, thus:

In the land of a thousand arseholes
By the sign of the swinging tit
Who Flung Dung was murdered
By his brother, Who Flung Shit.

The second of his favourites was:

Nellie the Cripple… (Yes, they used words like cripple back in the day.)

All of a sudden a blooming great pudding came flying through the air
She tried to duck
But could she fuck
It hit her fair and square

Another which Pops only knew the first two verses of was as follows..

It was Christmas Day in the workhouse
The merriest day of the year
The paupers and the prisoners
Were all assembled there

In came the Christmas pudding
When a voice that shattered glass
Said, “We don’t want your Christmas pudding
So stick it…
there with the rest of the unwanted presents”

The workhouse master then arose
And prepared to carve the duck
He said “Who wants the parson’s nose
And the prisoners shouted…
“you have it yourself sir”

The vicar brought his bible
And read out little bits
Said one old crone at the back of the hall
“This man gets on very well with everybody”

The workhouse mistress then began
To hand out Christmas parcels
The paupers tore the wrappers off
And began to wipe their eyes

The master rose to make a speech
But just before he started
The mistress, who was fifteen stone
Gave three loud cheers and nearly choked herself

And all the paupers then began
To pull their Christmas crackers
One pauper held his too low down
And blew off both his paper hat and the man’s next to him

A steaming bowl of white bread sauce
Was handed round to some
An aged gourmet called aloud
“This bread sauce tastes like it was made by a continental chef”

Mince pie with custard sauce was next
And each received a bit
One pauper said “The mince pie’s nice
But the custard tastes like the bread sauce we had in the last verse!”

The mistress dishing out the food
Dropped custard down her front
She cried “Aren’t I a silly girl”
And they answered “You’re a perfect picture as always ma’am !”

“This pudding “, said the master
“It’s solid, hard and thick how am I going to cut it?”
And a man cried
“Use your penknife sir, the one with the pearl handle”

The mistress asked the vicar
To entertain his flock
He said “What would you like to see?”
And they cried “Let’s see your conjuring tricks, they’re always worth watching”

“Your reverence may I be excused?”
Said one benign old chap
“I don’t like conjuring tricks
I’d sooner have a carol or two around the fire”

So then they all began to sing
Which shook the workhouse walls
“Merry Christmas!” cried the master
And the inmates shouted “Best of luck to you as well sir!”

Of course, dear old Dad used to say the words you were expecting, Christmas pudding firmly stuck up arse and not with the unwanted presents…

Finally, with a heavy cockney accent, regular renditions of:

There was a bleedin’ sparra
Flew dahn a bleedin’ spout
Dahn came the bleedin’ rain
And washed the bleeder aht

And one lost to my memory that began something like: forty fousand fevvers on a fuckin’ frush

That was my Dad the poet. Happy memories. 🙂


About tonyjayg

I'm a great bloke. That's all you need to know. ;)
This entry was posted in Funny-Peculiar. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to My Dad the Poet?

  1. Brilliant – especially Christmas Day in the Workhouse!!!

  2. Tony says:

    Good stuff, thanks for your memories

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