Bring on the rosy-cheeked girls
The smiling ones, the light-footed dancers,
Those that sing with their eyes,
Those with the warm breasts and soft hands,
Those that look deep in the eyes,
Not at the garbage of garb.
Bring on the dark, the fair, the brown as a berry,
Bring them all on with their wet laughing mouths,
The fat, the thin, the short, and the lanky,
But let them be filled of life as a pod with peas,
Let them feel as company comfortable as an old friendly jacket,
young or old,
And most of all . . . let them be merry.
And then take all the others,
All the tight-lipped, crab-faced, mewling, mithering,
Niggardly, sour-faced, crab-mouthed,
Cold-titted, tight-arced, moaning,
Money-grubbing bitches, and
Take them and heap them together
On some blear and dreary moor
In the howling sleet
And moaning drizzle of November. . . and leave them there,
For it deserves them And they each other.
Then bring on the lads,
The smiling lads,
The open-handed, shoulder-to-the-wheel lads,
Lame dogs helped over stiles lads,
Take a pint, stand a corner lads,
Good laughing lads,
Lads with a quart of life in their hands
And eyes that look straight . . .
Bring on the tall, the short, the long,
The runners, the walkers,
Those that can hammer, those that can turn out a song
Bring on the fat, the thin, the bald and the hairy,
Young or old,
So long as they sup life by the gallon . . .
So long as they’re merry.
Then take all the others,
The sly-eyed, twisty-mouthed grabbers and fumblers,
The shifty-faced, two-tongued, leadswinging lizards,
The snotty-nosed, mardy-arsed bullies
And false friends . . .
And stick them up to their necks
In the foulest stink-pot of an old bog
You can find . . . head down . ..
And leave them there.
But for God’s sake not too near
That moor with all the old whores . . .
If they meet up and breed
We’re all buggered.