 A rat, not King Rat King Rat was a bald and rather troubled creature, His face had warts that was one feature. His eyesight was poor he had trouble to see, Something that thankfully doesn’t afflict me. His ears were big his nose was long, His backbone was indeed not very strong. For whenever he faced a problem he always ran, This was a rather pathetic old man. It got so bad he ended up alone, No one to turn to just his mirror to moan. There was however something else he had, Lots of money that drove him rather mad. Mad because he became so insecure, And for this my friends there is no cure. His love of money knew no bounds, He had a nose for it like a hound. His talent for it was quite startling, His desire however was disheartening. For what is money when you have no friends, No one to be with no reason to spend? Indeed he shunned those around, Forcing him to live underground. And this is where he remains, Decrepit, alone in much pain. Sharing his life with Baccarat, Crystal, clothes an expensive car. Covering face with a tilted hat, The unfortunate life of King Rat.
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(To be recited to the tune of The Ballad of John and Yoko) Yes I arose out of a tulip, Back in an old town called Camberwell. It was in an old granny’s garden, And it wasn’t a place you should dwell. You know it really isn’t easy, When you live up a tree. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. It was way back in 1870, On the day Charles Dickens died. His spirit soon left And chose me instead, I swear that I haven’t lied. You know it really isn’t easy, When you live up a tree. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. Back from the Camberwell garden, I authored many a play. The critics soon said, ‘you have a crazy head, None of these plays make any sense.’ You know it really isn’t easy, When you live up a tree. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. Writing all you can for a children’s book, Training an army of slugs in the back. Yesterday the neighbour said, ‘Why do you keep hitting my head?’ I said, ‘I have a lot of cabbages And I was told to – shrink!’ Rapidly published my first Duke & Michel, Came under zero attacks. The critics said, ‘it’s the best thing we’ve read, When can we read the second act?’ You know it really isn’t easy, When you live up a tree. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. Ended up writing a book of crazy rhymes, Didn’t quite know what else to do. The critics said, ‘we wish you the best, We were hit with cabbages was it you?’ You know it really isn’t easy, When you live up a tree. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. The way things are heading, Someone’s going to plagiarise me. Papa Noel, Father Christmas, Santa Claus Whatever you call him, the choice is yours The furry white beard, the ample frame Wherever you are he’s still the same With his reindeer and his sleigh Delivering presents come what may To good children, never bad And this is what makes me rather sad For even naughty children should still receive A little gift the day after Christmas Eve After all, they’re only kids And how could anybody possibly forbid That just isn’t nice believe you me To find no pressie under the Christmas tree It once happened to me when I was young No present found no song was sung And did it affect me as I grew up? Of course it did so shut up! Christmas comes just once a year, Which makes your parents smile from ear to ear. For Christmas does not come cheap, The prices of gifts is rather steep. Rather than asking for quite so many, Consider telling them to save their pennies. This may sound tough and you’d rather not, But think of all the nice stuff you’ve got. The video games, the dolls, the BMX bike, So many things I’d rather like. As a matter of fact, beg for more, Get more and more gifts forget the poor. Don’t you worry you’re doing a good deed, Because I’m actually quite in need. If you do I’ll stop my rant, And no longer say that you can’t. Ask for Christmas to stop by more, Get your parents down to the store. Then pretty soon it’ll be thrice a year, And make your parents frown from ear to ear. |
Elias ZappleSurplus rhymes from 'Elias Zapple's Rhymes from the Cabbage Patch' that were sitting, gathering dust and getting mouldy. Archives
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