Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant Poems
Butchered To Make A Dutchman's Holiday
In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d__d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!
It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!
No matter what 'end' they decide -
Quick-lime or 'b'iling ile,' sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!
But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!
One fox-faced virgin, word for word,
Repeats each sland'rous thing she's heard,
And sourly smiles as scandal slips
With gusto from her thin white lips.
She's bad enough! but list a minute.
Beside her mate she isn't in it.
This latter lady, 'pon my word,
Repeats things . . . . she has never heard.