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Whistely
Oh little bit of script evict,
The woman known as my housebitch
She carries on like a fishermen's hag,
And to the ground her tits do sag
And should I have ever had the chance
I'd have put her into a rapid dance
But alas she is now an urban witch
And maintains loudly our sorry myth.
But how would I keep the place so clean,
Without the dishcloth and mop queen?
And meals I'd say 'twould chance to take,
For days on end upon the plate,
And the messages that were given
Would not again make me quiver.
But alas she is an urban witch,
And maintains loudly our sorry myth.
A punch or kick from passing crowd,
Has not landed nor be found
As we wonder of it how is this so,
Where the havoc encountered wher'est she go?
But how on earth could gayer days come,
When again I unraveled of she this has done
But alas the confusion found betwixt,
Is the question of whether to duck or to shift?
Why only the other night I was found,
Being escorted from a bar in uptown,
Where ursula vulgaris had taken the stage,
And sent the manager into a rage
Where screaming and shouting I managed to grasp,
Her 5th whiskey, a bit left in the glass,
And as I left to phone for a caeb,
Her tobacco it flew, I ducked,
And on the footpath it did land.
And so we ventured back to very land,
With me trying but not having to understand,
That a tent may be hot in the summer,
And like a fridge with first winter bother.
But truly her sisters have already engulfed,
Any hope of escaping the duty prolonged,
For we no longer know what is since,
The myth housebitch witch
Or the original inch….
(c)R.H.Elliott 2005
