They say I wrote a naughty book
With perfectly awful things in it,
putting in all the impossible words
like b--- and f--- and sh---.
Most of my friends were deeply hurt
and haven’t forgiven me yet;
I’d loaded the camel’s back before
with dirt they couldn’t forget.
And now, no really, the final straw
was words like sh--- and f---!
I heard the camel’s back to crack
beneath the weight of muck.
Then out of nowhere rushed John Bull,
that mildewed pup, good doggie!
squeakily bellowing for all he was worth,
and slavering wet and soggy.
He couldn’t bite ’em he was much too old,
but he made a pool of dribblings;
so while the other one heaved her sides
with moans and hollow bibblings.
He did his best, the good old dog
to support her, the hysterical camel,
and everyone listened and loved it, the
But still, one has no right to take
the old dog’s greenest bones
that he’s buried now for centuries
beneath England’s garden stones.
And, of course, one has no right to lay
such words to the camel’s charge,
when she prefers to have them left
in the W.C. writ large.
Poor homely words. I must give you back
to the camel and the dog,
for her to mumble and him to crack
in secret, great golliwog!
And hereby I apologise
to all my foes and friends
for using words they privately keep
for their own immortal ends.
And henceforth I will never use
more than the chaste, short dash;
so do forgive me! I sprinkle my hair
with grey, repentant ash.