I’ve never been under the sea.
It holds no attraction for me.
Or been to the moon,
No, nor any time soon.
That’s how I prefer it to be.
Unbelievable though it may seem
My left leg is stuffed full of cream.
My forehead is creased
In the shape of Matisse!
I admit that this might be a dream.
You remember that young man called Nish?
A boat trip was his number one wish.
It all went quite well
Until over he fell
And was scoffed by a ruddy big fish.
An antelope in Birkenhead.
I think that was what the man said.
But I must admit,
Now I’ve pondered a bit,
I do wonder if I was misled.
Every once in a while in Berlin
There’s an outbreak of breathtaking sin.
I’d quite like to share
All that’s happening there
But I wouldn’t know where to begin.
A slice of toast
With cocoa too
And farmyard laid
And apple juice
Yes, cake! And croissants,
Ham and cheese.
And it’s not even breakfast time
And I’m allergic to wheat
And the soldiers are real soldiers. And for some reason there are owls.
And everything is on fire.
Whenever Arnold Basingstoke gets wet
You’d better watch out; no word of a lie
He swells to fourteen times his normal size
And then explodes. Work hard to keep him dry.
A young guy I met once, called Dan,
Kept on poking his prong in a fan.
Done as a one-off
That would put most men off
But Dan’s an unusual man.
A town planner, Bartholemew Streek,
Had a vision that folk found quite bleak.
He concreted parks
And kept roads in the dark
And they cursed him each day of the week.
Young Arnold, a glutton for pain,
Took his clothes off and stood in the rain.
Once dried and made warm
At the end of the storm
He longed only to do it again.