Eric the Cleric

Her name was May but they called her June. She never missed breakfast so turned up at noon. 

She kept house for a Cleric with a gruesome face, hairy clusters of warts all over the place,

Afflicted with machine-gun, wild doses of sneezes,Which everyone discovered -   alas   Never ceases,

 Oh Father, says she -  wiping  snots  with a towel, your hockers  are  making me loosen my bowels-

while buttering soda she ate lumps of corned beef, using the butt of a match to ready her teeth,

 Ah now, “May June”, t’is  the month of July, and the  basterin pollen is flying so high ,

 tis wretched  I am –with  this curse  I am damned. T’would be a release just to die - 

Put an end to your sighing, leave me in peace with my  crying,

and oh,  is that rashers you’re  frying? Rashers me eye, says June with a sigh,

and gave him a baleful look, as he slobbered  all over his book.

 He gave it right back,  cried alas and alack and unlatched the door from its hook.

He reeled  round the yard,Like a man who was barred,From inns  near and farred.

As he expectorated, He thus  decorated, The haysheds,  livestock, and the tarred

Lane.

Poor Doctor McDougal resorted to Google – To see could he find any tricks,

To ease the poor bastard, before the whole farm he plastered

40 shades of Green, the hayricks.

In his onslaught he drew,Every weapon he knew, From a lifetime of pisroeoig and cures,

Till he finally said, somethings wrong in your head,Come here till I fix it, ya whore.

On the side of a bog, he  wiped his phisog,  kicked a stray dog, and pissed on a log,

And then ran away down the glade,McDougal came after, consumed with laughter,

Hurling sugar dipped razor blades, At  the unfortunate Cleric, whose first name was Eric,

 Who lepped and screeched down the hill, June went on the lam, with a pilfered  boiled ham,

And swallowed cold tay with a pill.
Me nerves cannot stand it, I live like a bandit, me notice I’d hand it If the craythur would only stand still.

She roared off to get flootered ,On her mobility scooter, with her wellington booters,
 And an  itch  in her gooter.

Eric the Cleric was gasping and wheezing, and of course all

The time he was permanently sneezing,

I’ve a pain in me gicker, I couldn’t be sicker,

He flailed and he flilled and he flopped,

With a strangling sound, he ran out of ground, fell over the cliff edge and

STOPPED.

“God bless us and save us, says ‘Oul Mrs Davis”

– cried Mcdougal as he peered down at  the mish-

Mash of his friend, who’d come  unstuck at  his  end,

“I’m as much use as tits on a fish!"

MDM