Aboutyou think you want to fight me?
but you think i'd rather not?
then listen to the story of
another guy i fought.
and maybe you'll appreciate --
i don't like blood and dirt
all smudgy on my fingertips
and dripping down my skirt.
he had a sort of eyepatch that
was caked and flaked in blood,
and he ground his teeth together
and he spat out bloody crud.
and then he sloshed his soggy boots
till blood ran down the hill;
i figured, by the looks of things,
this must be bloody bill.
and bloody bill was roaring drunk
and bloody bill was loud
and bloody bill was picking fights
with people in the crowd.
now, i was out to buy some milk
to take home to my mum,
but i could see i'd have to teach
some manners to this bum.
and so i turned to face him,
with a sigh of utter boredom,
i flicked my little finger,
and immediately floored him.
i would him round a tree i found
and beat with might and main,
till all the booze and tobacco juice
had had a chance to drain.
i pelted him with melted cheese
and fourteen devilled eggs;
i tied spaghetti to his hair,
lasagna to his legs.
and when i turned him right side out
he scuttled down the hill
and never once looked back at me --
just ran, did bloody bill.
and me, i washed my fingers
of the blood and scum and rum,
and bought a quart of two percent
and took it home to mum.
so though i'd love to fight you,
i am really very shy,
and leaving you all black and blue
would likely make me cry.
i don't want to turn you inside out
or wrap you round a tree;
why don't you take your strong right thumb
and suck it peacefully?