John Whitworth


What’s that cooking in the copper?
What’s that bubbling in the broth?
Who’s that chopping with her chopper
Something cooking in the copper?
Someone’s come an awful cropper
In the fiefdom of the Moth,
Steaming, smoking in the copper,
Bobbing, broiling in the broth.

You should save yourselves such sorrows,
Stalwart Simon, clever Keith,
More than brother begs or borrows,
So much grief, so many sorrows.
I can trash your rash tomorrows,
Show you such a set of teeth,
Such a peck of griefs and sorrows,
Simple Simon, little Keith.

Prime the pistol, shine the sabre,
Strikes the hour for paddywhack.
Shrill the fife and beat the tabor,
Cock the pistol, draw the sabre.
Where’s your ally? Who’s your neighbour?
Empty out the haversack.
Fire the pistol, slash the sabre,
Keep the faith and mind your back.

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