Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

I rubbed her greasy gammon ; Her grotto I did futter. I smoked her old red herring ; I hogged her periwinkle ; I fulked her maiden erring : I watched her lower twinkle. I went in to her tunnel ; Put on Hans Carvel’s ring ; Was filtered in her funnel, And goose-and-ducked her thing. I split her rump, and vaulted The star above her garter ; Her strong-room I assaulted, And occupied her farter. From which you all may gather That it will not be long Before I am a father . . . And that is all my song. There ! Let me alone now, and I will continue the Archbishop’s recital. How was it that days so sweet must pass ? Oh Jimson ! Oh divine maestro and thy Opera “ Or- ange Pekoe ” ! To this hour the lust of thy dear shit-sewer sends the creamy essence of immortal- ity all over my drawers. But it ended, and bit- terly. The careless youth got too near S...y B.....s, and her breath killed him, as it would any creature higher in the scale of creation than a L..s or a H...s. They have the immunities of their crapu- lence. Broken-hearted, with a mentule like a weeping willow, save that it would not weep ; I left the remains of my Stevie. Not without an effort to get even with the robber Death ! I flung myself upon the dear corpse ; I buggered him night and [58]