There’s a song in my heart 

And a skip in my step 

And a merry old tune on my lips. 

There’s a glint in my eye 

And a curl in my quiff 

And an Elvis-style swing in my hips. 

So let my heart sing 

On this first day of Spring 

And let me look forward to Summer. 

No more frozen drains, 

No burst water mains, 

I won’t have to call out a plumber. 

 

There’s a pong in my fart 

It’s a real shirt flap ripper 

And plunders with hurricane force. 

The stench is appalling 

And unprecidented 

By man, beast or demon. Or horse. 

And as it pervades 

Every valley and glade 

I rejoice at my olfactory senses. 

I can’t grasp enough 

How one’s personal guff 

Is much nicer than anyone else’s. 

 

There’s a Wong in my cart 

And a Xiaou and a Pun 

And a Chin and a Ho and a p’Tang, 

A Ming and three Chows 

Ho-Chi-Minh, seven Maos, 

I’m smuggling them all to England. 

They’re safely packed in 

With a smile and a grin 

They’re heading for freedom tonight. 

They were making a riot 

But they’ve gone rather quiet 

I do hope that they are all right. 

 

There’s a thong in my tart 

Where there should be just raisins 

I’ll have to go back to the shop. 

I’ll speak my complaint 

To the manager’s face 

And his sorry old nose I shall bop. 

I’ll punch his fat gut 

And Doc Marten his nuts 

And machete his friends and relations. 

I’ll burn down his dwelling, 

Then silence his yelling... 

Your Honour, I plead provocation. 

 

There’s a wrong in my art 

And it must be put right, 

I should not write poetry like this. 

Oh, why do I do it? 

I simply don’t know. 

Perhaps there is something amiss. 

I feel I should strike it 

But folk say they like it 

Does that really mean it’s all right? 

There’s no raison d’être 

For my poetry, yet 

Oh, I know, it’s okay, it’s Shite!