Poetry Archives

‘Why did the lady in the lift
     Slap that poor parson’s face?’
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
     Of clerical disgrace.

Said Sonny Boy: ‘Alas, I know.
     My conscience doth accuse me;
The lady stood upon my toe,
     Yet did not say—”Excuse me!”

‘She hurt—and in that crowd confined
     I scarcely could endure it;
So when I pinched her fat behind
     She thought—it was the Curate.’