Harvest Me Gently Yet
There's many pheasant pluckers farm life's field
For the daily yield, for the daily yield
There's one or two callow shunts on life's track
For the coming back, for the coming back
There's a wilted stitch on many a sore
For the stevedore, for the stevedore
There's a bum ditch underneath it all
For the wait, for the wait
There's a shoal of boiled sprat to rank the pot
For the drunken sot, for the drunken sot
There's a willow a weep when the rain falls down
On Dublin town, on Dublin town
Pheasant pluckers, wilted stitches, boiled sprats, make quite a stew
Produced by sundry shining wits, the fevered and the few
There's a wobbling canker on life's cleanest mitt
For the hissy fit, for the hissy fit
There's a pretty nick on the bursar's cane
For the mundane, for the mundane
There's a roaring hat on any good head
For the newly dead, for the newly dead
There's a boring prat in many a bed
As we eat them up, as the witches have said
And many have tasted the gingerbread
But the brain damage doddlins mean this line must STOP!
So stop it did...
Contributors: | chaise, Roland, jm, Beefy, Dravis, Gussie, Lydia Santos, Nigel Sly, Margaret, LaoFuZhi, Grayman. |
Poem finished: | 13th February 2004 by Beefy. |