The thing's all wrong (I sez to ‘im)
Now look, there's this ‘ere Monday, Jim,
Comes before Christmas. Be a toff
An' lest us ‘ave the Monday off.
Old Pete Parraday, he isn't very wise
Or so the local gossips say - They love to criticise
His crazy views and values, and the things he counts worth while.
'Better had he saved his money,' say his critics, with a smile;
When Summer comes
To silence the retreating drums
Of stubborn Winter, when content
Shall salve my chill predicament.
Heigh, ho! But they're talking, talking,
As the cold, hard streets we're walking
Seeking work at any wage,
While the talkers rant and rage.
'Excuse me if I sit on you,' the cup said to the saucer.
'I fear I've been here all the afternoon.'
'Spare excuses,' said the saucer; 'you have sat on me before, sir.'
'Oh, I'll stir him up directly,' said the spoon.
I detest the Carrion Crow!
(He's a raven, don't you know?)
He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul,
I venerate economists
As very learned blokes,
But when in paradox they speak
Their meaning oft I vainly seek,
Can it be I - this Hindenburg, deferring
To demagogues, catch phrases, lucky charms
And all this mummery about me stirring?
Can it be I, lord of high feats of arms,
Bountiful rain, we have yearned for you, prayed for you,
When, thro' the drought days, ill visions had scope;
Thankfulness vast in the past we displayed for you
When you have come at the end of our hope.