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There once was a poet named Hughes,
he was singing the Wednesday night blues,
he received a new scar
but his budgerigar
stayed at home and he drank all his booze.
So when Jerry returned from the docs
he unravelled a pair of great socks.
Then he stuffed him inside
and he quickly applied
a blue label which read: To Fort Knox.
Mrs. H. who had put up her feet
and was sipping his Penderyn neat.
heard the telephone ring:
'Here speaks Jerry the King,
would you please bring me something to eat? '
So she rushed to the place at high speed,
then he wanted some papers to read,
and the puter at once
so he could show the 'sons'
who should be in the forum to lead.
Then the bandage fell off of his chest,
which exposed a symmetrical breast,
and the 25 stitches
the descendants of bitches
had installed there at Jerry's behest.
Where's my Vegemite, said he with scorn?
Don't you think that a jar should adorn
this big tray which is meant
for the staff to repent
on their spongebath for him in the morn.
Well, he asked for the sister to be
at his bedside at five fifty-three,
she would use Mister Sheen
to scrub Jerry H. clean
a bit risqué, that's if you ask me.
All the rest you must wait for a bit
as he'll write a new poem, a hit.
And his very first post
guarantees him a toast
maybe not at the words that are writ.
Herbert Nehrlich
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