Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

Chew, chew the bits ! The slime out slips From stinking pits. Her arsehole grips My prick : my wits Are in eclipse When Celia shits. IX When Celia croaks I mean to play One of my funny little jokes, Ah ! Dust to dust and clay to clay When Celia croaks. I’ll dress her up in cloaks and toques Etcetera, earn her away And after sundry final pokes Hire her at three-and-six a day To G...H... — what a hoax ! “ None but the dead ” shall have its way When Celia croaks. X When Celia rots, each poxy hole Will serve : she hath an hundred twats. Come finger, tongue, and fucking pole When Celia rots. Here, the old ulcers ! Happy spots ! Hail, pustules ! Hail, oh central goal Wherein some sucking devil squats Now surely as ever ! Broke the bowl. Loosed the old cord — yet hope unblots The record. God may fuck her soul When Celia rots. [131]