There is a little wowser
John Thomas by name,
and for every bloomin’, mortal thing
that little blighter’s to
blame.
It was’’im as made the first mistake
of putting us in the world,
forcin’ us out of the unawake,
an’ makin’ us come
uncurled.
And then when you’re gettin’ nicely on
an’ life seems to begin,
that little bleeder comes bustin’ in
with: Hello boy! what about
sin?
An’ then he leads you by the nose
after a lot o’ women
as strips you stark as a monkey nut
an’ leaves you never a
trimmin’.
An’ then somebody has ter marry you
to put him through’is paces;
then when John Thomas don’t worry you,
it’s your wife, wi’ her airs an’
graces.
I think of all the little brutes
as ever was invented
that little cod’s the holy worst.
I’ve chucked him, I’ve
repented.