There was a young curate of Eltham Who wouldn’t fuck girls, but he felt ‘em. In lanes he would linger And play at stink-finger, And scream with delight when he smelt ‘em.
My dad got his degree in embalming...
When we were little and we'd be getting dressed to go to church on
Sundays, Dad would have to lay me down on the table to tie my tie.