of Monty Python

Horace Poem


Much to his Mum and Dad’s dismay
Horace ate himself one day.
He didn’t stop to say his grace,
He just sat down and ate his face.
“We can’t have this” his Dad declared,
“If that lad’s ate, he should be shared.”
But even as he spoke they saw
Horace eating more and more:
First his legs and then his thighs,
His arms, his nose, his hair, his eyes...
“Stop him someone!” Mother cried
“Those eyeballs would be better fried!”
But all too late, for they were gone,
And he had started on his dong...
“Oh! foolish child!” the father mourns
“You could have deep-fried that with prawns,
Some parsley and some tartar sauce...”
But H. was on his second course:
His liver and his lights and lung,
His ears, his neck, his chin, his tongue;
“To think I raised him from the cot
And now he’s going to scoff the lot!”
His Mother cried: “What shall we do?
What’s left won’t even make a stew...”
And as she wept, her son was seen
To eat his head, his heart, his spleen.
And there he lay: a boy no more,
Just a stomach, on the floor...
None the less, since it was his
They ate it – that’s what haggis is.

Port Shoem
by The
Speverent Rooner

I’ve a Gouse and Harden in the country
An ace I call my plown,
A treat I can replace to
When I beed to knee alone.
Catterfly and butterpillar
Perch on beefy lough
And I listen to the dats and cogs
As they mark and they biaow.
Yes wature here is nunderful
There is no weed for nords,
While silling by my windowflutter
Biny little tirds.

Short Poem



Chorus by the men of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

1. I’m a lumberjack
And I’m O.K.
I sleep all night
And I work all day.

He’s a lumberjack
And he’s O.K.
He sleeps all night
And he works all day.
2. I cut down trees
I eat my lunch
I go to the lavatory
On Wednesday I go shopping
And have buttered scones for tea.
Mounties He cuts down trees
He eats his lunch
He goes to the lavatory
On Wednesday he goes shopping
And has buttered scones for tea.

He’s a lumberjack
And he’s O.K.
He sleeps at night
And he works all day.
3. I cut down trees
I skip and jump
I like to press wild flowers
I put on women’s clothing
And hang around in bars.
Mounties He cuts down trees
He skips and jumps
He likes to press wild flowers
He puts on women’s clothing
And hangs around in bars.

He’s a lumberjack
And he’s O.K.
He sleeps all night
And he works all day.
4. I cut down trees
I wear high heels
Suspenders and a bra
I wish I’d been a girlie
Just like my dear Pappa.
Mounties He cuts down trees
He wears high heels
(spoken rather than sung)
Suspenders... and a bra?
That’s shocking, etc.
That’s rude... tuttut... tut tut...

(music runs down)

The Poems of Ewen McTeagle

The Poems of Ewen McTeagle
Introduced by the Lionel Blair Dancers

From the lonely crofts of Scotland, two three turn, from the haunts of coot and hern, pause kick, comes a still small voice in a world gone mad, jump two three down, round, spin: the poetry of Ewen McTeagle. This young Scottish poet, up two three, spin, jump and down, has taken the world of literature by the throat, pause, kick kick pause, with such poems as ‘Spare us 50p for a cup of tea, Guv’ and the world famous ‘Lend us a quid till the end of the week.’

Lend us a quid till the end of the week.
If you could see your way
To lending me sixpence
I could at least buy a newspaper.
That’s not much to ask anyone.

Upon Reading Chapman’s Homer in Selfridges

Owe gie to me a shillin for some fags
And I’ll pay yer back on Thursday.
But if you can wait till Saturday
I’m expecting a divvy from the
Harpenden Building Society.

Lines Written to Lassie O’Shea

‘To Ma Own Beloved Mary.
A poem on her 17th birthday.’

Lend us a couple of bob till Thursday,
I’m absolutely skint
But I’m expecting a postal order
And I can pay you back
As soon as it comes.

The recurrence of this theme of desperate search, for something perhaps symbolic, perhaps half imagined, is central to his greatest work: ‘Can I have £50 to mend the shed.’

Can I have Fifty pounds to mend the shed?
I’m right on my Uppers.
I can pay you back
When I get this postal order from Australia
Hope the bladder trouble’s getting better.
Love, Ewen?

Other Poems: ‘My new cheque book hasn’t arrived,’ ‘Lend us a bob for a wee refreshment, hen,’ ‘What’s twenty quid to the bloody Midland Bank?,’ ‘I’ll just have to cut down on food.’

Prize Winning Poem to the Arts Council: ‘Can you lend me a £1,000 quid?’ (This poem won £1)

From The Monty Python Big Red Book (1971).

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