Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

THE ARCHBISHOPS’S SONG I nicked her suck-and-swallow, Her intercrural trench, Her home-sweet-home, her hollow, Her little shop of stench. I knocked her up the mustard-pot ; I swivelled her in the socket ; I stirred her creamy custard-pot With my rampageous rocket. I jumbled up her harbour ; I climbed her Jacob’s ladder : I slept inside her arbour ; I stung her with my adder. I larded her factotum : I fucked her breadwinner ; My thrysus and its scrotum Gave her starch pie for dinner. Her Mary-Jane I mashed, Her little sister jiggled ; Her sack of corn I thrashed ; Her horse-collar I niggled. I stormed her Jack Straw’s Castle ; I jammed her tufted treasure ; I packed her paper parcel ; I dug her mine of pleasure. Her omnibus I boarded ; I shagged her lover’s locker ; Her Customs I defrauded : By Langolee ! I block her. I cleaned her saucy salmon ; I piddled in her gutter ; [57]