Blighted by the mites,
Pets have to be groomed
And sprinkled with power that's white.
White, they look a fright---
Appear to be doomed,
Domestic ghosts roaming the night,
I feel for their plight;
I too must be groomed
Because I am sharing the blight.
Mad-dog runnin', lungin' has been nearly done in
By these things, smaller than gnats.
Hind leg pumps, out come clumps of fur once stuck to his rump--
Look like he's chewed by rats.
That's Rover, rollin' over, blanched as the cliffs of Dover;
He'll itch, no merry old hound.
Though it is most uneasing, he's in need: tweezing.
This canine isn't pleased. . .like the pound.
I thinks she
Binds me up too tight;
Hemp ain't a loose nose;
My face is turning puce then white.
Bind should be more light
I now can deduce
So I request she make it right.
Smiling at my plight,
She says, "Just hang loose
It won't do any good to fight."
This sinister sister gives me bliss when she blisters;
Mutual kicks we partake.
And we both get turned on; some say that this is wrong--
To get pronged like lush lawns with a rake.
She's Beaux Arts, so smart, pecking at my pec't'ral parts!
She's preenin' as she chafes my hide:
Then she gets curlies-twirly, kind of a burly girly,
A classicist, yet she's mean and snide.
Lass is beatin' on my backside.
Yes, she's unkind, but that's alright;
She gives me a goose,
Thumps where my bum is scarlet bright.
Kindness ain't in sight.
Blows rain down, but she never gets tired,
She's gonna rake me through the night,
She's gonna shake me through the night.
Butt, mama, that's where to club it;
Butt, mama, that's where to drub it.
Mama calls me "toadie, sot, boob, shnook, dimwit, putz, tripe on a bun."
But, mama, that's what my lunch is!
Some brimstone scammin' phon', anti-Christ drone rolls in dough 'n'
Preaches and then feasts.
It's no loan the hicks have thrown; his palm's greased; their bucks are blown;
He's found his marks, and they're fleeced.
He will rue, moan, crap intone, his hand inside their pockets,
Pullin' pelf from the pants,
Which ain't been sown shut, so 'n his crammed coffers it'll go 'n'
These rubes never had a chance.
Glossolalia--then crash to the ground.
Yes, they were "guided" by the "light,"
Rev.'d up, as if juice
Had lit their limbics mighty bright.
Guided by his "light,"
Rev.'d up, then cut loose,
Then he's runnin' off in the night.
Guy don't feel contrite;
Rev. stuck 'em with screws
In their backs, and then twisted tight.
Guy's now on a flight;
Rev.'s up there to muse
On how he ripped 'em off alright.
Guy seemed so polite;
Rev. would say, "Excuse
Me if he'd spill wine--even white!"
Guy never got tight;
Rev. eschewed the booze
Such as rum, gin, and aquavite [sic]
Guy was good at slight
Of hand; he would use
It to rummage each acolyte.
Why do these rubes bite?
"Revs" runnin' a ruse
Keep hookin' fish with no foresight.
Bligh's fish rations: slight;
Set loose 'cause the crew's
Had more than enough of his shite.
Bligh did high seas right;
For tools he would use
The horizon, moon- and sunlight
Bligh spied cliffs of white;
"That's Dover," he mused,
Though sunlight had hurt his eyesight.
Bligh enters the bight;
Spreading is the news
As far off as the Isle of Wight.
Madman pummels gunwales scrubbers, once landlubbers,
In a mean rage, wields the cat.
The men grump as they sump with the rattling bilge pumps;
Their waistlines have no fat.
Their rage smolders--they're like polders whose dikes have grown older;
Soon they'll break; mer will flood the ground.
The men will need releasin'. "Seize 'im and grease 'im!"
The cacophony can't be kept down.
They're hot and they fling snot at their nemesis, who's not,
They think, ever gonna see land.
There's no blood spot, 'cause not a shot is fired;
And Christian chides them: "Jeer not. Knave casts his lot
With loyal band."
They're seasick and listless, and each man is soon gristless.
Bold Bligh has got what it takes.
He says, "We must be strong; grub we'll eat's chummy pong."
They got browned in the sun and got tired,
But still they made it home alright,
To cliff and dogs, both chalky white.