The Song Of The Lark
In The Park

In The Park

Oh, hark
at the lark
a-singing in the park.

Oh, joy
to the boy
out with his new toy.

He's finished his birthday trifle.
Now he's playing with his air rifle,
as through the park he walks
and seeks his quarry to stalk.

Like a gong
goes the song
of the lark among

the bushes,
while the thrushes
in their wisdom each hushes,

and alerted to his target,
like a cockney off to Margate
or even down to Brighton,
the boy's excitement heightens,

and "pop!" -
see it drop
from the tree top.

Now hark
at the barks
of the dogs in the park


The Vauxhall Zafira
Gets you nearer
To where you want to go,
With all the family,
Not too crammily
Not too fast
And not too slow.

Bum Cracks

Bum Cracks

If you didn't have a bum crack
You're arse would be quite plain.
It would not have a crevice
To cleave the thing in twain.
Instead it would resemble
A smoothly polished dome
With a crater in the centre
Like a rounded volcano.

If you didn't have a bum crack,
You'd only have one cheek
Albeit quite a big one
But you'd still feel like a freak.
Your gait would be all awkward
As your bum would stretch and strain,
And thongs would look ridiculous
And be never worn again.

I'm glad that we've got bum cracks
And only one at that.
Anymore would make us look
A total set of twats.
Imagine five, or ten, or more,
I'm sure that I would hate it.
Who could be turned by arses
That are corrugated?

So raise a glass to bum cracks
As they've sadly been neglected
They hide your hideous brown eye
And should rightly be respected.
Let's thank the Lord for bum cracks
And be glad that we've all got 'em
And drink a toast to that fine thing:
The bifurcated bottom

February 2006

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