Johnny-Ace
24th Jul 2005, 8:47
Dedicated to HoneyPotts with whom I wish to redeem my character.
I once had a dog with a fine wooden arse
I took him one day to the fair
He seemed very pleased to view all the crowds
In their colourful light summer’s wear
We scanned the gay scene full of big happy smiles
All the stalls full of jams and fresh bakes
The marching brass band, so far out of tune
And the children who ran in their wake
Amidst a loud clamour of doggies and cats
I approached the austere village vet
In great heavy tweeds and a dignified pose
He judged every neat coiffeured pet
“Great Scot!” cried the vet. “No-no,” I replied
“He’s an Irishman through to the bone
Not a wolf would come near to those Emerald shores
when my Rover would sit on his throne”
“Twas not his birthplace I sought to imply,”
he gasped out in dark consternation
“T’is that thing which girdles his nethermost ends
that dumfounds my trained observation”
“Dear God!” he roared out and waved high a fist
and his jowls they grew purple and bleak
“what manner of person has seen so absurd
as to clad this poor cur’s arse in teak?”
“Good Sir,” says I, in no mood for this jest
“As a vet, well, I’m sure you’re a peach
but your knowledge of wood, is not very shrewd
For his arse it is crafted from beech”
“Enough!” sputtered he, “I’ll call down the law
I’ll countenance no more of this cur
T’is an affront to our God and the whole canine race
To have grain where there should’ve been fur”
“O, I see your tack,” says I with a scowl
“He’s not quite a blooming bouquet
But I’d have a mutt, with a patinaed butt
before poodles in pink, anyday”
“And the same for your shitzus and low-bellied runts
and those Mexican midgets so crass
No, I’ll stick to my dog with the hand-crafted log
of beech-wood that serves as his ass
So good reader take care, should you go to a fair
And your woof-woof you mean to display
Make sure that it’s limber and its arse is not timber
For you’ll cause great alarm and dismay
Boom-boom
I once had a dog with a fine wooden arse
I took him one day to the fair
He seemed very pleased to view all the crowds
In their colourful light summer’s wear
We scanned the gay scene full of big happy smiles
All the stalls full of jams and fresh bakes
The marching brass band, so far out of tune
And the children who ran in their wake
Amidst a loud clamour of doggies and cats
I approached the austere village vet
In great heavy tweeds and a dignified pose
He judged every neat coiffeured pet
“Great Scot!” cried the vet. “No-no,” I replied
“He’s an Irishman through to the bone
Not a wolf would come near to those Emerald shores
when my Rover would sit on his throne”
“Twas not his birthplace I sought to imply,”
he gasped out in dark consternation
“T’is that thing which girdles his nethermost ends
that dumfounds my trained observation”
“Dear God!” he roared out and waved high a fist
and his jowls they grew purple and bleak
“what manner of person has seen so absurd
as to clad this poor cur’s arse in teak?”
“Good Sir,” says I, in no mood for this jest
“As a vet, well, I’m sure you’re a peach
but your knowledge of wood, is not very shrewd
For his arse it is crafted from beech”
“Enough!” sputtered he, “I’ll call down the law
I’ll countenance no more of this cur
T’is an affront to our God and the whole canine race
To have grain where there should’ve been fur”
“O, I see your tack,” says I with a scowl
“He’s not quite a blooming bouquet
But I’d have a mutt, with a patinaed butt
before poodles in pink, anyday”
“And the same for your shitzus and low-bellied runts
and those Mexican midgets so crass
No, I’ll stick to my dog with the hand-crafted log
of beech-wood that serves as his ass
So good reader take care, should you go to a fair
And your woof-woof you mean to display
Make sure that it’s limber and its arse is not timber
For you’ll cause great alarm and dismay
Boom-boom